The Trivial Sublime
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: Sherlock is back, as if he'd never left, but it's John who has changed; new girlfriend, new job, new life. Reconciling all that with his old life with Sherlock is proving difficult. Writing a 30 chapter fic using the 30 Day OTP Challenge as a prompt.
1. Holding hands

Title: The Trivial Sublime

Author: MildredandBobbin

Rating: M

Pairings: John/Sherlock, John/Mary Morstan

Summary: Sherlock is back, as if he'd never left, but it's John who has changed; new girlfriend, new job, new life. Reconciling all that with his old life with Sherlock is proving difficult.

Notes: I am doing the 30 Day OTP Challenge on Tumblr and A03. There will be 30 chapters in this story, each based on a prompt from the challenge but making a single narrative. If you want to check out mbdoesdrawing on tumblr I am also drawing fan art to accompany each prompt - some are Not Safe For Work and contain explicit content.

I'm half way through the challenge so will start posting here. Some chapters are quite short, some are very long.

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Day 1: Holding hands

The flat was quiet when John returned from the clinic. Sherlock lay sprawled on the sofa, deep in whatever thought was currently occupying his mind. John shook his head and went back into the kitchen to put the groceries away and order some take away for dinner.

John poked his head back into the living room quickly just to check, yes, that Sherlock was there. The sight made something glow in John's chest. He still couldn't quite believe it some days; his fervent, grief-filled prayer for one more miracle had been answered, and there the rangy git was, lazing on the sofa as if he'd never left.

Later, after the Chinese take away had arrived and the smell of wontons had lured Sherlock from the sofa long enough to consume enough sustenance to satisfy John (Sherlock had lost weight while he was away, his BMI was definitely too low for John's liking), they both settled down in the living room for the rest of the evening. The fire glowed in the fireplace, there was something pleasantly mindless on telly, he'd exchanged two texts with Mary, and Sherlock was perched beside John on the sofa, knees drawn up under his chin, intellect turned to deducing the contenders on the latest reality show. John grinned and gave a sigh of contentment.

"John."

"Hm?"

"Nothing."

John glanced at Sherlock, eyebrows raised. Sherlock was frowning at the television.

"What?" John asked, curious now.

"Doesn't matter."

John studied Sherlock for another moment then turned back to the tv.  
He was suddenly yanked halfway across the sofa as Sherlock grabbed his wrist, pulling John's hand, palm up towards his face.

"Sherlock! What-" The words fell away as Sherlock's fingers began to lightly trace the lines and marks on John's hands. "Um." John's mouth felt unaccountably dry. "What are you doing?"

"Hm?" Sherlock didn't glance up, eyes fixed on John's palm as if he was trying to deduce his future like a bloody fortune teller.

John tensed his hand but did not pull it away as Sherlock examined each finger in minute detail.

"You interested in palm reading all of a sudden." John chuckled, a tad weakly.

"Don't be ridiculous John."

And then, as suddenly as it started, it was over, Sherlock dropped John's hand and returned to his side of the sofa, pulling his legs back up under his chin and wrapping his arms around his shins.

John blinked and flexed his hand and shifted back to his side of the sofa. He glanced at Sherlock but the other man was staring fixedly at the telly once again.

John opened his mouth to ask again what that was all about, but suddenly felt foolish, this was Sherlock, and whatever bee was suddenly in his bonnet, it was gone now. John settled more comfortably on the sofa and curled his hand into a fist, the sensation of Sherlock's fingertips lingering. John cleared his throat and focused on the television.

"You're hands are rougher than before," said Sherlock suddenly. "You've been doing manual labour. Chopping wood. Gardening."

"Yes. At Mary's mum's. We stayed with her at Christmas."

"Dorset."

"Yes. How— never mind." John sighed, he was still getting used to Sherlock's disregard for personal privacy again.

Sherlock said nothing more and John returned to watching the telly, but it wasn't quite the same companionable silence anymore. After a little while, Sherlock stood up and went to saw on his violin and John turned off the tv and went to bed.


	2. Cuddling somewhere

Warning for this chapter: homophobic language.

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**Day 2: Cuddling Somewhere**

John had received Sherlock's text two hours into his shift at the clinic. He was surprised that his initial response was still to drop everything and go. He didn't. Instead he texted back that he was at work and he'd call on his break.

He spent the next two hours checking the time and watching the screen of his phone in case another text arrived. As soon as his last patient for the morning was out the door he hit the call button. Sherlock, the complete prat, didn't answer.

John stabbed out a text.

_On lunch break. Call me back if convenient. Fucking call back anyway if not._

The reply came almost instantly.

_Stakeout. Can't talk. Feel free to keep me company. SH_

John nipped down to reception and checked his appointments for the rest of the day. He was solidly booked until three.

_Sorry, can't. Booked up. Be there by 3.30?_

Sherlock didn't respond.

John spent the afternoon shift in a state of anxiety. Finally he was able to leave and he bolted out the door, phone in hand.

_On my way. Still there?_

_3A 68 Forest Road, Dalston. SH_

He got a cab to the end of the street and then did his best to act inconspicuous as he made his way to the flat where Sherlock was hiding. He was half way up the stairs when he got another text.

_Hi sexy, fancy coming round to mine tonight? Stirfry, movie and bed? xo_

John stopped, startled by Mary's text in the middle of a case. He hesitated, the memories of a half dozen other girlfriends, stood up or let down for the sake of a case with Sherlock, came flooding back to haunt him like so many ghosts of cockblocks past. He couldn't do that to Mary, he _wouldn't_ do that to Mary. On the other hand he couldn't just turn around and go home now.

He continued up the stairs and tried the handle of 3A. The door opened into an unfurnished flat. He saw Sherlock crouched by the window, beckoning him in without shifting away from the window. John joined him.

"Anything?" he asked in a whisper.

"Down there." Sherlock pointed to the balcony on the floor below where a middle aged woman stood smoking.

"Suspect?"

"Wife of the suspect."

"Um, listen Sherlock. I can't stay long, I have to go in an hour. Want me to get you anything while I'm here?"

Sherlock didn't look at him, merely tilted his head to one side, eyes still focused on the woman on the balcony. "I see," he said, just when John thought he wasn't going to reply. "No. You needn't stay. Lock the door on your way out."

John sat back on his heels, hurt and surprised that he was hurt. He shrugged it off. "Don't be like that. I'll stay for a bit, take a turn at keeping watch. You have a break. What are we looking for?"

"If the woman leaves, or if anyone joins her or goes in the front entrance."

"Right."

"Or any conversation, you know the drill."

"Yep, got it."

Sherlock shifted back away from the window before standing, and stretching. John turned back to the window, but he could hear the other man's bones crack.

"How long have you been sitting here, you daft git?"

"Since this morning."

"Since you texted me?"

There was no reply. John glanced back but Sherlock had disappeared. After a few minutes he heard the toilet flush, answering that question. John heard Sherlock footsteps and then the faucet running in the kitchen, followed by the sound of Sherlock gulping water.

Then Sherlock was at his side again but he didn't return to the window but instead lay down, stretched out next to John.

"You shouldn't do this sort of thing alone," said John. "You should get an assistant or something."

There was a long moment before Sherlock replied. "Of course," he murmured. "You aren't available anymore."

John felt the knife twist inside his gut; the reproach loud and clear. "I have a job now Sherlock," he said in a terse whisper. "I need a job. I…I was too dependent on you— before. I have to have my own means of support." He rubbed at his scalp. "I had to rebuild everything when you left. Don't feel like doing it again. So. Yeah. If I've got a shift I'm too busy. Sorry."

The silence stretched between them, long and thin.

John glanced at him. "If you need back up, I can go in the evenings or on the weekends, if I haven't made a commitment to do something else."

"Mary," muttered Sherlock.

"Yes. Or anyone, anything else I've said I would do."

John could feel Sherlock's eye roll without looking. He knew Sherlock must be disappointed, but he fought against the urge to give in, he needed to do this, he had to keep his new life going, he couldn't just throw it all away now that Sherlock was back.

All the same, he still felt as if he was leaving Sherlock in the lurch. "Maybe you should just employ someone. You get enough business now to be able to afford some back up. What about one of your homeless network? They need the work more than me."

Sherlock didn't reply. John sighed and got back to watching the woman downstairs, just as she stubbed out her cigarette and went back into her flat.

"She's gone inside," said John.

Sherlock was on his feet in an instant. "Stay here, watch the front entrance," he said before slipping out the front door. He'd only been gone two minutes when John saw a tall, bald man, walk up the footpath and turn into the block of flats. John hesitated then dashed out the front door after Sherlock. He found him in the stair well, just above the next floor.

"Someone's come in," he hissed. Sherlock pulled back as the bald man came up the stairs below them and went over to the door of the flat they'd been watching.

"Go back," Sherlock whispered. "Keep watch on the entrance and the balcony."

"What are you going to do?"

"Follow him when he leaves."

"Shit. No. Not by yourself. I'm coming with you."

Sherlock sucked his top lip under his lower one and glanced at John.

"Fine," he said. "I'll text you when he leaves."

John nodded and went back up to 3A. He checked the time, it was only four now, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Mary telling her he'd be there around seven. He settled down to wait.

Two minutes later he heard voices raised from the flat downstairs, a door slammed and he didn't need Sherlock's text to know their mark was on the move. He was on his feet and out the door, close on Sherlock's heels as they slipped down the stairs after their target.

And then they were running, dodging, ducking into alleys and sprinting around corners and John found himself grinning like an idiot and he caught Sherlock's eye and he grinned back.

Finally their target went into a pub and they came to a stop in an alley beside it, John stationed at the end near the back exit, Sherlock at the front. John was breathing heavily, he wasn't used to this physical exertion, not after so long. Sherlock on the other hand wasn't even puffing. John thought of the stories he'd told, of hiding in warehouses, running for his life, sleeping rough, travelling for days at a time, all in pursuit of Moriarty's network. Slowly dismantling it, one criminal at the time. Before he could come home.

John felt a tiny niggle of guilt, that he wasn't waiting with unconditionally open arms, but he couldn't go back to how things were. He couldn't. He understood what Sherlock had done, why he'd done it, but the fact remained that he'd let himself get into an unhealthy relationship and he really _shouldn't_ do it again. Besides, there was Mary now, and John was determined to prove that he could hold onto a girlfriend, even with

Sherlock Holmes around.

Suddenly Sherlock was pelting towards him, herding him up against the wall, pressing his whole body against John's and burying his nose in the crook of John's neck.

"What-" gasped John, startled into compliance.

"He's coming," Sherlock hissed, canting his hips against John's. "Pretend we're making out."

John ducked his head against Sherlock's shoulder, suddenly very aware of his breath against his throat, his hips pressing against his and Sherlock moving in a very _accurate_ imitation of a man getting off with someone in an alley. John swallowed.

Heavy footsteps strolled past.

"Fucking poofs, get a room."

Sherlock was shoved hard, crushing John back against the wall, the full length of their bodies pressed together.

The footsteps faded and John raised his head, the alley was empty. "He's gone," he said, his voice still sounding odd. He turned his face and found himself nose to nose with Sherlock. Nose to nose and crotch to crotch and chest to chest. John froze and suddenly Sherlock seemed to remember himself and he stepped back with a start.

"Let's go," said Sherlock and they were off again.

Later, much later, John got a text.

_ETA? xo_

Mary. Shit. John checked the time, 7.30. Shit. They were camped outside another set of flats and Sherlock had called for Lestrade, confident that this was the where their target was hiding his stolen property.

"I've got to go," said John. "Will you be right until Lestrade gets here?"

Sherlock didn't even glance at him. "Perfectly. Give my apologies to your girlfriend."

John huffed a laugh. "Yeah, no offence but I'm not telling her I was late because I was haring after you. All right. I won't be home tonight, with a bit of luck. See you tomorrow after work."

Sherlock merely grunted, but as John stepped out of the alley and started for the tube he heard very distinctly. "Goodnight John."

He'd take that as the closest Sherlock Holmes would ever come to a thank you.


	3. Gaming or watching a movie

Warnings for this chapter: masturbation

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**Day 3: Gaming/watching a movie**

John quietly shut and locked the downstairs door at 221 Baker Street and carefully made his way upstairs. It was after midnight and he didn't want to wake Mrs Hudson. He avoided the creaky step and carefully found the key for their flat on his keyring without too much clinking. He didn't _want_ to be quiet. He wanted to stomp up the stairs. Some slamming of doors wouldn't go astray either, John thought, as warranted when you've just had a row with your girlfriend and you've stormed off in a huff (instead of swallowing your pride and curling up in bed with her after some apologetic sex).

He stood at the door, remembering again the cause of their fight and hoped said cause was in bed asleep, because John really didn't want to talk to him right now. He opened the door quietly and stepped inside. There was a glow of light from the living room and the sound of canned voices and low music. No such luck, Sherlock must be up watching a movie.

John hung up his coat and walked into the living room. Sherlock's laptop was sitting on the coffee table, its blue glow illuminating the sofa. John frowned as slowly the content of the programme registered. Two bodies writhed together, grunting and gasping, interpersed with enthusiastic cries. Porn?

He blinked, frowned. Looked closer. _Gay porn?_

And then he glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock stared back at him, like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Cheeks flushed, eyes bright and pupils wide, he was wearing his dressing gown and pyjama t-shirt and...well...nothing else. His long legs were splayed open, his hand still wrapped around his cock...his very erect and achingly hard cock. Beside him on the sofa was a box of tissues, a couple already used, and a bottle of hand lotion.

John swallowed.

And then time started up again. He and Sherlock moved at once. Sherlock flinging his dressing gown over his crotch and John spinning away.

"God, sorry! Sorry!" John said, covering his eyes. "Um, I'll just-" He pointed towards the stairs up to his room.

"John- you're home early-"

"Sorry, my fault-" John made for the stairs as quickly as possible, the image of Sherlock having a wank (Sherlock having a wank to _gay porn_) seared on his retinas. Worse his own cock seemed to be responding in sympathy.

"Why are you home?"

John paused but didn't turn around. "Um. Just a row with Mary. I didn't feel like spending the night. That's all. Um. See you. Um- in the morning. Night."

He heard Sherlock spring up from the sofa. "John- "

John rested his hand on the bannister. His ears heated. "Um, yeah?"

"I don't- this isn't something I normally do-"

"It's fine. My fault. Um, everyone does it, it's not, I'm not, um, you- goodnight."

John fled.

He shut his bedroom door firmly and leaned against it for a long moment, arousal burning. The glimpse he'd caught of writhing bodies on the laptop screen, the sight of Sherlock, lounging decadently on the sofa, legs spread and having a good hard-

It was just stimulus that's all, it didn't mean anything.

John palmed his own prick through his jeans. He hadn't even gotten off with Mary tonight. He unzipped his fly and dropped his trousers, kicking them off and flopping onto the bed as he reached for his rapidly hardening prick.

He tried to think of Mary; Mary's lovely smile, her lovely big breasts, he roundness of her arse and hips and the way she looked when he had her doggy-style, the delicate curve of her spine. Somehow though, images kept flashing through his mind, images that send shocks of lust through him, straight to his groin: the half-glimpse of a man on his knees, some other bloke's cock sliding slowly into his arse, the very full glimpse of Sherlock, aroused and masturbating to exactly that sight. Another frisson shot down his spine. Sherlock on his knees, a cock sliding-

John came.

Afterwards he wiped himself off, retrieved his pants, pulled off his shirt and climbed into bed.

He lay awake for a while, thinking about his fight with Mary. It was stupid. A stupid fight. All because he hadn't wanted to tell Mary that he almost forgot her because of Sherlock. Of course she knew he was hiding something and jumped to conclusions and wouldn't let it rest, kept poking at it until finally John snapped and told her where he'd been. Except that made it even worse, the way he'd told her, and then it seemed like a problem, when it wasn't a problem and if he'd just told her in the first place-

So then Mary was cool towards him and irritated because he'd snapped and lied and he was irritated because she was irritated and hadn't let it rest. Things were said. About Sherlock. About John lying and needing to be clear about his priorities. And John left.

The worst thing was, even as it was happening, he knew that he was doing it again, letting Sherlock come between him and girlfriend. Even as he was storming out, he knew he was doing exactly what he'd promised himself he wouldn't do.

He dug his phone out of his jeans pocket on the floor.

_I'm an idiot, and you're lovely. Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night to make it up to you? xo_

The phone rang straight away and he answered.

"Hey you," said Mary.

"Hello," said John. "Have I mentioned I'm an idiot?"

"Hm yes, you may have."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too. I have trust issues. I know I do. And what you said, about trying not to make Sherlock an issue. I understand and I don't want to- I'm not going to be that girlfriend who throws a fit if her boyfriend spends time with his mates."

"Yeah, you're not, I handled it badly. I just didn't want you thinking you had to worry and then you did. I'm sorry." John stroked his belly and thought of Mary, lying in her bed too.

"Me too."

"So we're okay? You want to go to dinner tomorrow, I mean, well tonight I suppose it is now."

Mary laughed, a wonderfully happy unselfconscious sound. "Yes, tonight it is then. What time?"

"Try for seven again? I'll make reservations and text you. Fancy anything in particular?"

"Um. French? Or Indian. Either one."

"Right. Onto it. All right, I'll let you get some sleep."

"Okay. Night John."

"Night, Mary. See you tomorrow."

Smiling to himself John disconnected the call and tossed the phone back onto his jeans. Contented again, unsettling thoughts thrust firmly from his mind, he fell asleep thinking about his plans for the next evening.


	4. On a date

Day 4: On a date

"Oh I love this place!" exclaimed Mary as they arrived at the French restaurant John had chosen. "I came here for Roger's birthday in April."

John smiled politely at the mention of Mary's ex-husband (with whom she was still good friends but that John had managed to avoid meeting so far).

The restaurant was nice, expensive too, but John felt this was the kind of make-up dinner that required fine dining.

Their waiter seated them and Mary smiled at him from across the table as she reached for the wine menu. John smiled back and nudged her foot under the table.

"So," he said. "Am I forgiven for being a complete prick last night?"

Mary raised her eyebrow and her eyes twinkled. "Only if I'm forgiven for being a paranoid cow."

"Well I can't forgive you for that, obviously, since you weren't." John grinned and Mary nudged his foot with hers.

They'd just placed their orders when Mary looked up with a start and John felt a presence loom over his shoulder. There was a sinking feeling in the pit of John's stomach.

He looked up and he groaned. "_Sherlock_," he said. "Unless someone I _actually_ know has died this can wait until I get home, tomorrow preferably."

Sherlock glanced at Mary and back at John. "This is important John, I need to go tonight and I need back up."

"Sherlock we talked about this yesterday," said John between gritted teeth. "Now. Please leave. I'm trying to enjoy dinner with Mary." John hadn't seen Sherlock that morning before he left for work and he wasn't at home when John returned that afternoon. He put it down to embarrassment about John catching Sherlock mid-wank so he was grateful to see Sherlock seemed to have gotten past that at least. John had decided that the 'pretend it never happened and whatever you do stop thinking about it' approach would be the best course of action.

"You can join us if you like," said Mary suddenly. "I'm Mary Morstan by the way, and you must be Sherlock. John's told me a lot about you." She smiled with that flash of steel John had come to admire. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."

Sherlock's expression suddenly changed and a fake, charming, shit-eating smile appeared. John had an immediate sense of foreboding. "Mary, so lovely to finally meet you. John talks about you incessantly. Completely besotted. He's always so resistant to introducing me to his girlfriends. Bit rude really, don't you think?"

"Yes, thank you Sherlock," growled John. He smiled at Mary. "Sorry, I am being rude. Sherlock this is my lovely girlfriend Mary. Mary my inconsiderate prat of a best friend."

"Lovely John," said Sherlock with another fake smile. Sherlock's gaze flickered between the two of them. "Fine!" he said and waved his hand to a waiter. "I'll be joining this table."

"Oh you don't- Ah. All right," said John as Sherlock was swiftly seated between John and Mary.

"There, now I can meet you properly," said Mary pleasantly.

John took a breath and tried to catch Sherlock's eye, to beg him with every ounce of telepathy he could muster, not to deduce Mary, not to humiliate or belittle her or crush every chance John had with her.

The waiter had brought a set of tableware for Sherlock and was taking his order.

"So, Mary, John tells me you're a pharmacist."

"Yes, that's how we met, John's clinic is next door."

Sherlock smiled and John knew it was fake, oh so fake. It was like watching a cat toying with a mouse. Dear God he hoped Mary could hold her own.

"You're divorced. No children." Neither of these statements were questions.

"Sherlock, Jesus," exclaimed John.

Mary raised her eyebrows but seemed amused. "And you get straight to the point, don't you. John said you were blunt. I suppose you want to make sure I'm good enough for your only friend." She smiled politely. Sherlock's expression didn't slip but there was something about his eyes that told John that there'd been a palpable hit.

John sank back a little in his chair in dismay.

"Hm yes, he does tend to think with his heart instead of his head. You seem suitable enough, attractive but not out of his league, unattached, divorce finalised, minimal baggage. Oh you go to therapy but so does John, at least you'll have something to talk about. Your background check was clean, there's that anyway."  
Mary blinked, then laughed. "Oh. Oh of course. I think I'm flattered, or scared. Not sure." She smiled at John and he gave her his best supportive, encouraging smile in return.

"Don't mind him, Mary. Sherlock behave. You really don't have to stay."

Sherlock looked between the two of them. He dropped his napkin on the plate and in one swift movement stood. "You're right, I don't. I have a extortionist to catch. Mary, it's a pleasure. Good night John." And he swept out of the restaurant.

John's phone pinged. He refused to look at it.

"I'm so sorry," he said to Mary. "He's-"

"Jealous?"

"Um, well yeah, he just likes having me available to help him whenever he wants. I can't do that anymore. You're too important. He has to realise I have my own life."

Mary reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "It's okay. I'm glad I met him. Hopefully that's the worst he has to say about me."

Later, as they left the restaurant, happy and giggling after a good meal and some good wine, John checked his phone.

It was from Sherlock. It was just an address. John tucked his phone back into his pocket and hailed a cab back to Mary's place.


	5. Kissing

**Day 5: Kissing**

John lay cuddling with Mary, sweaty and sated. He liked post-coital cuddling. He liked doing it with Mary very much, but tonight he just couldn't relax into it. Despite his best efforts he kept thinking of Sherlock and if he needed help and if he was okay.

"John."

"Hm?"

"It's okay, you can go check on him if you like."

"No, no, I'm here with you. He'll be fine. He managed perfectly fine without me for three years, he can last one more night."

Mary kissed his shoulder, just above his scar. "I don't mind. Besides you're not going to be able to sleep and you'll keep me awake. Go on with you."

"Mary-"

"Go!"

John chuckled and kissed her and then she swatted him on the bum as he climbed out of bed.

"Talk tomorrow okay?" he said.

"Mm yes. Tonight was lovely, thank you."

"You're lovely."

"So are you."

John let himself out, his phone already in his hand. There weren't any new texts from Sherlock.

_Still out? On my way._

There was no response so John went back to Baker Street first to make sure Sherlock wasn't passed out asleep. The flat was in darkness and there was no sign of Sherlock. John changed out of his date clothes and shoes into something more practical. He slid his gun into the waistband of his trousers and was out the door, hailing another cab to take him to the address Sherlock had given him.

It was a warehouse in an industrial estate. There was a light on in one of the back windows and John drew his gun and edged around the building looking for a side entrance. He checked his phone but didn't try contacting Sherlock again. If he was in there and in the middle of something he'd have it on silent.

John found a door with the lock broken and he carefully pushed it open. It stuck half way and John eased through the gap. The warehouse was full of empty shelving and a few crates. A light shone from the far side of the building and he could hear sounds coming from the direction. As he crept closer the nature of the sounds slowly collaesced and a prickle of fear crept down his spine: grunts, and the particular dull thunk of flesh landing on flesh, there was a splash, more splashing. John came around a corner, heart pounding, gun ready, hyper-focused. A burly man in a leather jacket was holding someone face first in a vat of water. A long, lanky someone in a dress shirt and slacks. He was struggling but only weakly. John's foot hit something soft and he saw Sherlock's jacket lying on the floor. On the other side of the area a smaller man stood, arms folding, watching the proceedings; he hadn't noticed John.

John eased back into the dark of the shelves and quickly tapped a message to Lestrade, including a request for an ambulance, and then approached from a different angle. Sherlock had stopped moving and John wasn't going to wait for back up.

The smaller man didn't see him coming and gave a small yelp as John knocked him unconscious with the butt of his gun. The burly man looked up in shock and there was a gasp as Sherlock suddenly thrust up out of the water. The burly man swore and pushed him down again mid breath. Sherlock thrashed, an alarming number of bubbles rising up the surface of the barrel.

"Let him go," shouted John, levelling his gun. The man raised his hands and stepped back. "Pull him out of the fucking water you tit!"

The man wrenched Sherlock out and dropped him on the ground. He lay there frighteningly still, water running from his mouth. Panic and a sick terror overwhelmed John. Shit. Shit. No, no, no. He ran over, still holding his gun on the thug. "I've called the police, you can piss off for all I care."

The man fled and John dropped the gun beside Sherlock.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Can you hear me?" he asked, shaking him. No, no, no. Not now. No.

No response, the doctor part of John told him. Sherlock's lips were blue and there was a nasty contusion on his cheek bone. He'd lost some buttons on his shirt and John ripped it completely open, saw an ugly boot shaped bruise forming on his left side over his ribs. Broken ribs? Risk of punctured lung. John took refuge in his training. Calm professionalism took over, his attention narrowed and everything else fell away. He cleared Sherlock's airway, checked for his breath. Not breathing, no pulse.

He positioned his hands and lowered his mouth to Sherlock's and gave five rescue breaths and then started chest compressions.

John lost count, he was still performing CPR, still pushing air into Sherlock's lungs, still performing chest compressions as the sound of sirens grew louder and surrounded the building. Still keeping oxygen going into Sherlock's lifeless body as he heard shouts and running footsteps. There was a hand on his shoulder and he looked up and saw Lestrade, two paramedics in tow. One of them pulled him away. For a moment he fought- he was outside Barts and there were hands, stopping him from feeling Sherlock's pulse, from helping him- but then he came back to himself, to reality and fell backwards, crawled out of the way and let the paramedics take over. He felt a tap on his shoulder and a nudge against his knee and he saw Lestrade push his gun towards him with his foot. John quickly pocketed it, adrenalin still pounding in his veins.

The second paramedic readied the portable defibrillator and John watched as Sherlock's body jerked upwards at the shock, more CPR and then suddenly, beautifully, Sherlock sharply sucked in a breath and coughed and coughed. He was rolled into the recovery position, and he lay shaking, coughing and vomiting up water.

"Thank God, fuck, fuck, thank God," John gasped, sucking in breaths himself, trembling. He buried his face in his hands. He shook. "Fuck. Oh fucking thank God."


	6. Wearing each others' clothes

**Day 6: Wearing each others' clothes**

"John?"

John woke with a start. He was disoriented and it took a moment to remember where he was; in hospital, in a chair next to Sherlock's sick bed. John was using Sherlock's coat as a blanket and must have fallen asleep sitting there. He blinked, frowned and then broke into a grin as he realised who had spoken. Sherlock was on his non-injured side, facing him, his eyes cracked open. He'd pulled off his oxygen mask and his hand rested on the coat over John's arm.

"Sherlock," John said. "You're awake."

"Perceptive as always, John," mumbled Sherlock but his mouth twitched into a smile in return. "You came."

"I did."

Sherlock's cheekbone was a livid red and purple. His hair was a dank mess and he looked paler than usual. There was another lump on his forehead that John hadn't noticed. He _did_ have a cracked rib, also bruising to his kidney but his lung wasn't punctured. It was bad enough that he'd have to be monitored for pneumonia and other drowning related complications, not to mention the potential neural damage.

"What happened to Weston and Albridge?" Sherlock asked. Not too much neural damage then, John thought with relief.

"Weston was arrested, well, after he woke up from his concussion that is, Albridge scarpered."

"You let him get away," accused Sherlock but without any strength behind it.

"I was busy giving you mouth-to-mouth you prat."

Sherlock snorted and his smile quirked up in the corner a little ruefully. "Thank you for that."

John looked at him fondly, so very, very glad he was all right. "You idiot, if I hadn't arrived when I did you'd have drowned."

"I had a plan."

"Pass out and inhale copious amounts of water?" John raised his eyebrows but he couldn't muster any anger. Not with Sherlock smiling at him and so _alive._

Sherlock smiled back. "I didn't say it was a good plan. I'm glad you came."

"So am I."

John pushed back the rough wool of Sherlock's coat and caught his hand and squeezed it. "Don't fucking do that again. It was...a bit not good, seeing you lying there, not breathing. Thank God Lestrade got there as quickly as he did with the paramedics. They had to use the defibrillator."

Sherlock suddenly looked up, behind John. His smile slipped and his expression closed off. It was such an instant change that John turned to see what he was looking at. Mary was standing at the door.

"Hello there," she said.

"Oh, Mary, hello," John said, pleased to see her but startled by Sherlock's response to her arrival.

"I brought those things you asked me for. Hello Sherlock," she said. "John told me what happened, I'm so glad you're okay."

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm tired now. You can go, John, I'll be fine." He pulled his oxygen mask back on.

"Hardly, you prick. I'm not going anywhere." He took the bag from Mary and pulled out a few things. "Here, Mary brought your pyjamas and toothbrush and things. Not sure how long you'll have to stay but I'm betting you'd prefer not to be in a hospital gown the whole time."

"I couldn't find any clean pyjama tops, Sherlock," said Mary. "So I brought in one of John's t-shirts, I hope that's okay."

Sherlock grunted.

"Thanks Mary, you're a gem," said John giving her an encouraging smile.

She squeezed his shoulder. "No problem at all. Let me know if I can do anything else to help." She leaned over and gave him a peck on the lips. "I'll see you later. Bye Sherlock, get well soon."

Sensibly, she didn't wait for a response from Sherlock and left after a laden glance at John, pulling the door shut behind her.

John got up and retrieved Sherlock's chart. He was about to put it back when Sherlock dropped the oxygen mask and sat up with a wince, hand out. John raised his eyebrows and handed the chart over.

Sherlock read through the data and scowled as he handed the chart back to John.

"You'll be under observation for at least a day," John said. "You're lucky you don't have a punctured lung, as it is you'll be pissing blood with that kidney of yours."

Sherlock flopped down dramatically and let out a howl of pain.

"Careful," tutted John. He pressed the nurse call button as he returned to his chair. "Let's get you unhooked from these machines at any rate," he said.

The doctor on duty declared Sherlock would need to remain under observation for at least twenty-four hours but agreed he could be unhooked from the drips and monitoring equipment. The nurse, a young man in his mid-twenties, bustled around, filling out Sherlock's chart and disconnecting him.

"Now, do you think you can manage a shower?" the nurse asked. "Or do you need some help?"

Sherlock scowled and John stepped in. "I'll give him a hand if he needs it."

"All right then," said the nurse. "I'll leave you to it."

Sherlock gingerly sat up. He hissed out a breath as John helped him to his feet and led him to the ensuite in the private room (thank you Mycroft).

John got the shower going and undid the ties on Sherlock's hospital gown, averting his eyes almost at the same moment as he realised Sherlock's arse was showing.

"All right, I'll just be out here if you need me," he said and fled the ensuite.

He sat on the chair and listened to the water running, the occasional hissed breath and moan as Sherlock moved. Finally the water shut off and Sherlock emerged, a towel about his waist, a few beads of water making their way down his chest. John watched one small rivulet travel down Sherlock's sternum to trickle over his abdominal muscles, drip over his navel and run over the light trail of fair hair that led into to the edge of the towel, just at groin level. John's memory supplied the rest.

He suddenly realised he was staring and jumped out of his chair, busying himself fetching the clothes Mary had brought.

"Um, here," he said fishing out the t-shirt, feeling his ears heat. What was wrong with him? Just because he'd seen the man wanking, suddenly he was ogling his body? It was just curiosity, that's all. He wasn't actually interested. He handed the shirt to Sherlock without looking at him.

"Bit of help John," said Sherlock.

"Um, right, yeah," said John avoiding Sherlock's gaze as he turned towards him. He assumed the mantle of medical professional and carefully helped Sherlock pull the t-shirt over his head and then ease his arms up and into the sleeves. He pulled the shirt down. It was one of his old army tees and wasn't too bad a fit on Sherlock, just a little short, a little tight across the shoulders and chest.

"There," he said and looked up. Sherlock was watching him, a faint blush on his cheeks. Had his staring been that obvious? John quickly averted his eyes and picked up Sherlock's underpants and pyjama bottoms. He turned back and handed them to him.

"I'm sure I can manage the rest," said Sherlock brusquely.

Mortified, John cleared his throat and turned his back, listening to the grunts and hisses as Sherlock bent over to pull up his pants and pyjamas. John turned around again as he heard Sherlock sink onto the bed with a sigh of relief.

"All sorted?" he asked and returned to his seat.

"You're insisting on staying then?" said Sherlock.

"Until you're released, yes." John sat back and folded his arms. "So, since I'm here, why don't you tell me what happened last night?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes but as he glanced sideways he looked pleased. "Fine!" he said and launched into a blow by blow account of his deductions and fight with Aldridge. John found himself bemused and amazed, once again marvelling at Sherlock's leaps of intellect and shaking his head in disbelief over the idiotic risks the silly sod had taken.

"Hand me my phone," Sherlock said suddenly half way through. John reached into the drawer of the bedside table and retrieved it for him. Sherlock tapped at it briefly and handed it back. "There, if Lestrade can't apprehend Albridge with that then he might as well take early retirement."

"You really are feeling better," John said with a grin.

"Hm, this is nothing. Remind me to tell you about the time I was shot in Austria," said Sherlock and then launched back into his retelling of the attack at the warehouse. "And that's when I heard you arrive," said Sherlock as he ended his tale.

"And that's where you nearly drowned," said John. "You can't keep doing this Sherlock, you need back up. You should have called Lestrade or, what about the homeless network, Iike I suggested."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned his face towards the opposite wall.

John studied his fingernails. "I'm not going to be available, Sherlock, you've got to work out something else. I know you managed somehow while you were away-"

Sherlock muttered something.

"I missed that," said John.

"I said barely. I barely managed. I need _you_ John. You're the only reliable back up I've ever had, and the only person I trust- if you can't do it then I'll manage on my own."

"If this is an attempt to guilt me into coming with you then it's not going to work," said John. He rubbed his eyes. "Just- wait. Just wait to do these things when I'm available, or give me some advance warning, don't just show up in the middle of my date for fuck's sake. I will try, okay, I will try to rearrange things if you can give me at least 12 hours notice."

"Six. I can do six hours."

"Eight and that's my final offer."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment. "Fine."

"Good. All right."

Sherlock was silent. Then he turned back. "Don't pretend you don't still enjoy it; the adventure, the adrenalin, the danger."

John stared at him. "I didn't say that. Of course I enjoy it."

Sherlock's gaze flickered over his face. "At least you admit it."

John looked away. He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Listen, might pop down to the cafeteria and grab a bite. Can I get you anything?"

Sherlock huffed and rolled over.

"Right then," said John and escaped for some air, the turn the conversation had taken unsettling him.


	7. Cosplaying

**Day 7: Cosplaying**

When John returned to the hospital room he found Lestrade had dropped by to see Sherlock and had left some case files. They kept Sherlock occupied for most of the day and John settled down with the book Mary had thoughtfully packed.

Apart from checking on Sherlock's well-being every so often, John left him to it. Every now and then Sherlock would ramble about one of the cases, apparently addressing John but not needing a reply. The silence was almost companionable, almost as if they were spending a quiet afternoon at home, just the two of them. Except they weren't, were they? They were in a hospital room because Sherlock had needed John as back up and John hadn't been there, and Sherlock had almost drowned.

Now that John's sheer relief that Sherlock was awake and was going to be fine had worn off, his anger returned at a low simmer. The residual adrenalin, guilt, concern, the memory of his fear and panic and the ugly reminder of that day outside Barts, was translated now into frustration and annoyance. He wanted to rage at Sherlock, to shake him and make him understand how seeing him unconscious and not breathing, had been very not good. He felt angry at himself too, angry that he hadn't been there, angry that it was even his responsibility to have been there, and angry too that part of him had _wanted_ to be there when instead he should have wanted to be with Mary. He could feel himself being pulled into Sherlock's orbit again and this was exactly why he had to fight to keep himself separate, keep his new life.

Sherlock, glaring at case files and muttering about police incompetence, was completely oblivious to John discontent, barely noted John's presence except to address his outbursts in general his direction.

John sighed and tried to focus on his book. Sherlock was awake now, and would most likely be fine, it wouldn't be unreasonable for John to leave. Still he stayed. John told himself it was because the great prat would check himself out too early if he wasn't there to watch him. It had nothing to do with the look of pleasure on Sherlock's face when he awoke to find John sitting by him, that John had come through after all.

John wandered off to the cafeteria again in the evening and then came back and switched on the telly for a bit.

Sherlock glanced at him but didn't comment on his continued presence. He _did_ hand him an uneaten pudding from his tea and returned to scrawling notes all over Lestrade's paperwork. John took the pudding and smiled to himself.

Sherlock was discharged the next morning, the doctor professionally declaring him a pain in the arse and that there was nothing wrong with his brain, but he ordered John to keep an eye on him all the same.

They'd been home for about two hours when John received a text from Mary.

_How's the patient? Is it heartless to ask if there's any chance you can come to Roger's party tonight? Miss you. xo _

John looked over to the table where Sherlock was busy welding something while simultaneously typing on John's laptop. Everything seemed to be back to normal. He looked back at his phone.

_Yep, I'm sure he won't even notice I'm gone. This is the fancy dress do, right? Miss you back. xo_

Mary replied straight away.

_Oh I'm so pleased. I'm dying to show you off! Yes costume. Don't worry I have yours. Will pick you up and bring it over then. About 6. xo_

John spent the day catching up on things he'd neglected while he'd been sitting by Sherlock's sick bed, including some sleep. Sherlock for his part seemed engrossed in whatever experiment he was doing, and barely said two words to John all day, which was hardly out of the ordinary.

Mary arrived just after six dressed as a 1920s flapper with a suit bag hanging over her arm. John thought she looked exceptionally sweet with her big blue eyes sparkling, her dress clinging to her curves in all the right ways and her legs shown off to full advantage in silver heels.

"Hello gorgeous," he said, giving her a kiss. He'd already showered and shaved and was in his dressing gown.

"Here let me help you get dressed," Mary said, taking hold of the tie on his dressing gown and leading him off to the bathroom.

Sherlock still hadn't shifted from his experiment when they emerged from the bathroom, ready to go to the party.

"Don't wait up," John said as he grabbed his coat.

Sherlock looked up from his microscope at that and his eyes flickered over the length of John's body, taking in his costume. He frowned. "You're going out."

"Um, yes, a party. With Mary. I'll come home tonight, make sure you're all right."

"Why are you dressed like that?"

John looked down at his cream coloured suit, "It's a fancy dress party. The Golden Age of Hollywood. I'm Gatsby."

"Who?"

"F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel, The Great Gatsby," supplied Mary. "John's Gatsby, I'm Daisy."

Sherlock's frown didn't fade. "Your hair is different."

"Costume Sherlock," said John, resisting the self-conscious urge to smooth his slicked-back hair.

Sherlock's jaw muscle twitched. "You look ridiculous," he said and returned to his microscope.

"I think he looks dashing," said Mary but John just shook his head. He knew when Sherlock was being an arse on purpose.

"Good night, Sherlock," he said and shut the door firmly behind him.

The party was exactly as boring as John thought it would be; lots of people who didn't know each other very well, being terribly polite and not drinking half as much as was needed to make the party fun. Mary did show him off to her ex-husband and their mutual friends and acquaintances so he fulfilled the role of charming new doctor boyfriend admirably and then stood about while Mary chatted about people he didn't know to people he barely knew. He found himself trying to deduce some of the guests and suddenly, unexpectedly wished very much that Sherlock were here. If not standing by his shoulder making cuttingly clever observations, at the very least that he would come barging in, shock everyone terribly with something unconscionably rude (preferably about Roger) and then drag him off to solve some crime somewhere.

By eleven John had had his fill of being Mary's arm candy. He'd run out of polite conversation and he really didn't want to be asked one more time if he was 'that John Watson'.

He took Mary aside. "I'm about ready to go, you stay if you like," he said.

"Oh! You're sure? Don't leave yet."

"I have to check on Sherlock, I don't want to be out too late."

Mary's expression seemed to calcify. "Oh, yes, of course. All right. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Yeah, that would be nice," said John. He pulled her close for a kiss, to make amends. She really was quite lovely. He pulled back with a sigh. "All right. Have fun. See you tomorrow."

Mary kissed him again quickly. "All right. Thanks for coming."

Sherlock was still awake when John arrived back at the flat. All the lights bar one lamp were off in the living room and John made sure to call a hello as he walked in the door, after the incident a few days earlier. John switched on the light in the kitchen and set the kettle boiling. He poked his head into the living room and found Sherlock lounging in his arm chair, twiddling his phone and staring into space.

"Hey," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Never. Better," said Sherlock, rolling the words on his tongue.

"Right. Good. Cup of tea?"

"No thank you," he said, enunciating every word with precision.

John decided to skip tea for something a little more medicinal and poured himself a scotch. He came into the living room and took a seat on the sofa.

"So what did you get up to this evening?" he asked.

"Solved two crimes without leaving the house and finished my filtration experiment."

"Okay. Productive then."

"It killed some time. I need a case that takes me more than two minutes to solve."

Bored then. Right. John sipped his drink and made no comment, this was an issue he was long familiar with and knew all too well there was nothing he could say that would help.

Sherlock gave a deep sigh and rolled himself off his chair. He flopped down next to John on the sofa.

"You left the party early," he said. "Mary's still there. Bored? Or you grew tired of being on display?"

John shook his head. "Both. No, it was nice. It was a nice party. Everybody was nice. Normal. It was nice."

"John if you say 'nice' one more time I'll know you are substituting that word for terrible."

John rolled his head to the side and caught Sherlock's eye. "Nice," he said. His mouth quirked into a half smile and Sherlock returned it. "God I wish you'd been there. You should have seen some of them. So pretentious. Mycroft would have been at home. Roger, her ex, he's a complete toss. I have no idea what Mary saw in him."

"Obviously not a lot since they got divorced," noted Sherlock.

"Hm yeah." John sighed and toyed with his glass. "She's a good girl, really lovely. I wish you'd give her a chance."

Sherlock was silent. John glanced at him after a moment, expecting to see him in a sulk at the mere mention of Mary, but instead he stared fixedly ahead, his expression tight, strained.

"I feel like you're moving further and further away from me," he said quietly.

John turned towards him, startled by this admission. "Sherlock. You're still my best friend. Nothing's going to change that."

Sherlock groaned. "You don't understand John. It's like that children's song, Puff the Magic Dragon. It's as if you're a grown up now, you've got a proper job and a girlfriend, you'll get married, buy a house, have children, and there'll be no time for running about with me and having adventures, and one day you won't have time for me at all and I'll be left here alone. Forgotten."

John did not ask why Sherlock had kept Puff the Magic Dragon in that great brain of his. He barely remembered the song himself, but he got the reference, it was something about a little boy growing up and abandoning his imaginary friend. "No. No, it won't be like that," he protested, even though he knew, suddenly, awfully, that, yes, it would.

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment and then jumped to his feet, pacing across the room to stand by the window. He clenched one hand behind his back as he leaned against the window frame and stared out into the night.

The silence stretched between them. It was Sherlock who broke it.

"When I was away- the thing that kept me going, whenever I got into a bad situation, was knowing that I had to come home, to you. I'd make a deal with myself, if I got through this, if I got out of this, when I got home, I'd tell you-"

He turned and John's heart caught in his throat. Sherlock's expression was raw and bare.

"Tell me what?" John asked, his own voice sounding odd in his ears.

Sherlock held John's gaze. "It doesn't matter anymore. I took too long. I was too late. When I returned, you'd moved on. You were with Mary."

John searched his face. His mouth felt dry, his pulse raced.

"Tell me what, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver. The muscle in his jaw twitched and his mouth tensed.

"Sherlock?" This was important. So important.

"Don't make me say it. At least spare me that humiliation," he breathed. And as John looked into his eyes he knew it was true, saw it, as clear as day. Oh God.

Sherlock was in love with him.

John's chest felt tight, ached. "I'm sorry," he said and meant it, while at the same time not sure what exactly he was sorry for. Sorry that he hadn't waited? Sorry that things couldn't be like they were, not anymore? Sorry that he loved Mary and he couldn't split himself into two? Sorry he couldn't return Sherlock's feelings? Sorry that he could but it was too much, too hard? Sorry it hadn't been said sooner?

"Don't," said Sherlock and turned and walked out of the room, shutting his bedroom door behind him.

John stared after him and sank back onto the sofa. He rubbed at his face. Oh God.

John sat on the sofa for a long while, thinking.

He thought about Sherlock. About Sherlock being in love with him. About Sherlock knowing he was losing John, feeling him slip through his fingers as he settled into a more stable life, with a steady girlfriend, maybe marriage, kids, a mortgage. He thought about the mad, fierce something he felt when he was with Sherlock. The eagerness and joy in the puzzles, in life. The sense that he was doing something meaningful, important. Something that would consume him, if he let it.

He thought about Mary. About Mary's lovely face, her funny, kind, generous personality. Sex with Mary. Spending time with Mary. It was so easy to be with Mary, noting complicated or confusing, so socially acceptable. Nice Doctor John Watson with his nice girlfriend, Pharmacist Mary Morstan. Two forty-ish professionals, enjoying a normal, middle-class life together. There were no body parts or toxic substances in the kitchen. No odd hours. No danger.

Long winded dinner parties.

He would have to choose. He wanted both. He wanted the brilliance and adventure with Sherlock, he wanted everything comfortable with Mary. He did care for Mary, very much, sometimes he even thought he might love her (those words had not yet been spoken, not by either of them - too soon, both too wary). But he cared for Sherlock too, intensely so. Probably more than a man should care for someone who was just a friend.

He hadn't told Sherlock that he'd made that same promise too; if he had a second chance, if only he had a second chance, he'd tell him. Tell him how he felt, how much their friendship had meant.

He hadn't kept that promise.

Sherlock had come back and John had been furious and hurt because it had been three years. Three whole years. And besides he'd started a new relationship. He had fixed himself and he was whole again and he had moved on. And Sherlock had appeared and swept his feet out from under him.

So no. He hadn't told him. It had taken every thing he had to forgive him, to accept, to understand, to start again.

John buried his face in his hands. God. Sherlock was in love with him.

He'd have to choose.

The realisation overwhelmed him. He lay on the sofa, aching, unable to even think about it. After a while he got to his feet and went upstairs. He went through the familiar routine of readying for bed. He lay in the dark; quiet, unmoving, unsleeping.

Finally he drew himself together. Forced himself to face the untenable.

He had to choose.

Sherlock couldn't share. It was hurting him too much. It wasn't fair to make him tolerate it, to throw him bread crumbs of time and expect him to be okay with it. (Not now. Not now John _knew_).

But Mary shouldn't have to share either, not know if John was going to show up, not know if John was going to get himself killed.

And as much as John wanted both of them, it was impossible. He was being torn in two. He couldn't keep balancing this fine line, keeping both Mary and Sherlock satisfied.

Eventually, either way, one of them would lose out. Sherlock words had hit home; either he'd slowly cut Sherlock out of his life, or Mary would go the way of all previous girlfriends. One or both would come to resent him. He'd come to resent one or both of them. He would end up hurting Mary, hurting Sherlock. As much as he wanted to try to work it out, to keep both, the decision would be made in painful increments anyway. It would be kinder to everyone to do it now, to devote himself to one person totally.

Who could he live without? Who could he bear to never see again. Because that's what he was he was asking himself to do, to cut one important person out of his life. He couldn't ask them to remain _friends_. Did that even work, anyway? Not now that he knew how Sherlock felt.

He'd reconciled himself to living without Sherlock before, but he'd also spent most of his life without Mary.

He thought of never seeing Sherlock again. He thought of no longer being a part of his brilliant life. He thought of the peace, the safety, the lack of frustrations and irritations.

In the end he realised it was no choice at all.


	8. Shopping

**Day 8: Shopping**

John woke up late the next morning. He felt miserable and an uncomfortable feeling of anxiety gnawed at him. When he remembered why he rolled over and pulled the covers over his head and tried to go back to sleep again.

As he lay there, in the cold light of day, and thought again about his decision, about the unpleasant task he'd set himself, he suddenly felt foolish. He was being melodramatic. Did he really need to end things? Couldn't they carry on as they were? Mary cared for him and Sherlock was his friend, surely given the alternative they could try to make this work.

John's stomach clenched again at the thought of what he'd decided to do. It didn't have to be today, he told himself. There was no rush, not really. Besides it might work itself out-

And that's when John knew he couldn't keep doing this.

It was always the same. He wouldn't make a decision, he'd let circumstances (Sherlock), time after time, drag him away from his girlfriends and inevitably they'd break up with him. And then he'd blame Sherlock, but he would never do anything differently.

This time he'd do things differently.

He got dressed and went downstairs.

Sherlock was still in his room, the door shut. John rubbed his face, recalling Sherlock's expression, the words he _hadn't_ said the night before. God. Such a mess.

Squaring his shoulders he went and tapped on his door.

"Just checking you're alive," he called.

There was a muffled grunt, which John took as a yes.

"Good. Want some breakfast. I'm having a fry up."

He heard a groan and then just as he was turning away, the door opened and Sherlock stood there in his dressing gown and pyjamas looking sleep-rumpled. Sherlock blinked at him owlishly and John suddenly had the strongest urge to hug him.

"Yes. I would like that. Yes," Sherlock rumbled and then scratched at his belly.

John managed a stiff smile. "Okay. Great. Won't be long."

Sherlock shut the bedroom door again and John went to the kitchen to start cooking. He'd just put the frying pan on the stove when his phone pinged with a text.

_Hello, all fine at Baker St? Thanks again for coming along last night. Everyone thought you were wonderful. Still on for lunch? xo_

John rubbed at his nose, then typed a reply.

_No problem, I had a great time. Yes to lunch. Where can I take you? xo_

He set the phone down and made breakfast. Mary texted back with a suggestion and he answered in the affirmative. He served out the bacon, eggs, toast and tomato onto two plates and set down two mugs of tea on the table.

"Sherlock!" he called. "Breakfast is ready."

He sat down at the table and poked at his food with his fork. He ate a mouthful. Felt a bit sick. Ate another mouthful out of duty, then dumped the rest of his meal in the bin. He washed up the frying pan and his plate and stood at the sink, drinking his tea.

Sherlock appeared, fully dressed in his suit. He saw his meal, saw John standing at the sink. His mouth tightened but said nothing and instead sat down to breakfast.

"Thank you, John," he said.

"It's fine," said John. "I've got lunch with Mary, need anything while I'm out?"

"No." Sherlock looked at him over the rim of his mug.

"I thought I'd get some Chinese for tonight," said John.

"Fine." Sherlock was still staring at him.

"All right. You feeling okay? No coughing? No dizziness? Ribs okay? Urine?"

"No, no, still sore and practically normal."

"Good. Good," said John. "All right. I'll see you later." He quickly washed up his empty mug.

Sherlock wore a slight frown. "Yes. All right."

John nodded and pocketed his phone. He ducked up stairs to grab his Gatsby suit to drop into the drycleaners and left the flat.

* * *

Mary looked gorgeous, as usual, and John felt his stomach sink and his resolve weaken.

He kissed her hello and she smiled her lovely, bright smile and took a seat. The restaurant wasn't busy and they were in a private sort of alcove. John took a breath.

He rubbed at his left eyebrow and looked up at her. "Mary? Um." He looked at her, at her bright smile, her open, pleased expression. She was so kissable, so comfortable, so easy-going. Why was he even doing this? Oh right. Because he'd realised last night that he didn't want staid, respectable and safe, boring polite dinners, the most exciting thing in his working day being a few stitches or a curious growth, and never seeing the battlefield anywhere, again. And the thought of being cut out of Sherlock's life again, only this time _knowing_ he was out there and he didn't want or need John as his side, that- that was not something he thought he could bear.

"Oh no, what is it? You've got that face."

"What face?" John asked, startled.

"The 'it's not you, it's me face." She pursed her lips, her posture straightened, visibly bracing herself. "Go on then, tell me."

John looked up at her, at her gorgeous eyes, her pert nose, her soft lips. He saw her brave smile and her resigned expression. Her disappointment. He frowned and looked down again. "Mary- No. It's. God. This is so hard." He found an ounce of courage and met her eyes. "I realised, last night, that I can't- I want to be chasing all over London, I want to be working with Sherlock again. I...and it's not fair on you."

"John, I know, I mean that's part of who you are, I understand that you want to spend time with Sherlock."

He shook his head. "Every other girlfriend I've had since I've known Sherlock has ended up dumping me because I'm a crap boyfriend when he's around. The other night, when I was late - that's me on a good day. Sarah - the first girlfriend I had after I met Sherlock, she ended up tied up and nearly killed by a Chinese Circus troupe. No one else has had that happen to them but, well, I usually forget them, stand them up, cancel dates. I hurt them, I let them down, they end up hating me. So. I care about you. I really, really care about you. And I don't want to hurt you and I don't know what to do, except, for once, the right thing and tell you that I'm going to be working with Sherlock again and I'm not going to be any good for any level of commitment. At all."

Mary's face had twisted, pressed tight and crooked and John knew she was definitely _not_ crying, with all her strength she was _not_ crying.

"We can work through it, John. If that's what you want..."

A waiter came over to take their order.

"Can we have just a few more minutes please," John said tersely and the young man took one look at their faces and hurried away.

"What I want- What I want isn't fair on either of you. I want to be able to run off with Sherlock whenever I'm needed, at a moment's notice. I want to be able to not come home because I'm thigh deep in mud, in the freezing cold, and Sherlock is two minutes away from finding some kidnapped kids. And I want to be with you, a lot, have long dinners and walks on the beach and be in your bed, whenever we feel like it and not be interrupted. I can't do both. The other night, I tried and Sherlock nearly drowned."

"I see. So you feel guilty. That's why you chose him."

"No, no, it's not just guilt. I realised I'm not cut out for a normal life. I'm so sorry, Mary. I really am."

She breathed in through her nose and looked away, blinking, for a moment before looking back.

"You're going to give up girlfriends, love? For the rest of your life? For him?"

John looked out the window. "Maybe. At the moment. I'd be an arse if I suggested you accept what I can offer."

"And what's that?"

John met her eyes. "The occasional date. No strings sex." He looked away again, not wanting to see her disgust.

"No," she said firmly, that steel in her voice again. "No, I don't think I can do that, John. I'm in too deep already you see."

John heard the catch in her voice and he felt his own throat become thick. "I'm sorry."

"Well. I suppose I'm lucky to have been allowed to borrow you for a little while then," Mary said.

"Don't, I was the lucky one. I'm- " He turned back, reached for her hand, it was shaking. Maybe his hand was shaking. "Look. Forget I said anything. We'll try to make this work. I'll- we'll lay down some ground rules-"

"John," said Mary, her eyes bright and her lip trembling. "No. You're right. I know you're right. I'll just be setting myself up to be hurt. I want more. I want a husband, one who's home most nights, who doesn't leave me wondering. So. No. Let's not do that."

John exhaled. He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. "I am so very sorry."

"John...Is it sexual? I'd just- I've seen the way he looks at you, the way you look at him...I didn't want to believe it, but, now-"

John studied their hands. "I don't know. He's in love with me. I- I don't know." He smiled ruefully. "If it helps, you can tell people that. Everyone thinks it anyway."

Mary deflated a little. "Oh John," she said. She took a breath. "Well, if you'll forgive me, I really don't want to sit here and try to act like you haven't just hurt me, terribly, so I'm going to go now." She stood.

"Mary-"

She raised her eyebrows. "You chose him, remember?"

John sank back in is seat. "Right. Yeah."

* * *

John picked up a few groceries on his way home, delaying his return. He felt too exposed, too confused. He wasn't ready to talk about this with Sherlock. He didn't know how he felt or even what he wanted. He didn't even know what Sherlock wanted. He hung up his coat and went into the kitchen to put away the things he'd bought. He could hear the tap,tap of Sherlock using the laptop in the living room. Regret curled through him. No more Mary. No more lovely, soft, cuddly, warm, gorgeous, sexy Mary. No more lovely dinners at hers, or cuddles on her couch, or even helping her Mum in the garden. He felt a bit like crying, to be honest. Instead there was a rude, arrogant, lazy, selfish, ignorant, thoughtless prick sitting in the living room, most likely using his laptop. For all he knew last night's 'confession' was just Sherlock using emotional manipulation to get what he wanted, John at his beck and call.

"I'm back," he called as he dumped the carry bag on the table. He fished out the bottle of milk and opened the fridge. He stopped.

The fridge was full. There was already a new bottle of milk. A bottle of orange juice. A new tub of margarine. Fruit? Vegetables? Some meat.

John squeezed his bottle of milk in and shut the fridge. He took a step back.

"Sherlock?"

There was a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Did you do the groceries?" John asked in disbelief.

"Hm, yes. It's amazing John, you can order online and they just deliver."

"Oh." John stared at the fridge, a lump in his throat. Oh. He leaned his forehead against the fridge door. He was unbelievably touched by this stupid, simple thing.

"John?"

He took a breath. "Thanks for getting the groceries. That was...good." Sherlock's sudden thoughtfulness on top of breaking up with Mary was all too much. He frowned, an uncomfortable prickling behind his eyes. "Um, I'm just going to pop down and see Mrs Hudson." He felt sorely in need of a hug.


	9. Hanging out with friends

**Day 9: Hanging out with friends**

John spent the next week licking his wounds over the break up with Mary and resolutely ignoring any thoughts he might be having about Sherlock. He wasn't ready to talk about it all yet, and he certainly wasn't ready to hear Sherlock's thoughts on his break up with Mary. Besides, John felt he needed to wallow in guilt and remorse for a bit before he thought about any other relationship that might or might not happen; Mary deserved that much.

John might have been feeling a touch resentful towards Sherlock.

It had been a quiet week, no cases and too much time for John to think; about what he was missing, about how he could be with Mary right now, possibly having sex, at least having a cuddle. He texted her once, just to check she was okay. She hadn't replied. He just wished there'd be a case, something, just to remind him why he'd thought this was a good idea.

While John sulked, Sherlock on the other hand was being unusually agreeable. He hadn't once texted John at work. He'd been surprisingly helpful around the flat. He'd cooked a meal using the groceries he'd bought and had even ordered the takeaway one evening. If he'd done any experiments during the day there were no sign of them when John came home from the clinic. In the evenings he'd usually disappear into his bedroom if he wasn't playing the violin (nicely).

But five days was a long time to wallow and by Friday night John decided some pizza and a movie was in order. Something to take his mind off things for a while. He picked up a DVD on the way home and ordered in pizza.

He came back downstairs after getting changed out of his work clothes. He made a cup of tea and settled down in his armchair with a medical journal.

"You haven't seen Mary for five days," said Sherlock suddenly.

"No," said John not looking up from his journal.

"It's Friday night, you're not having dinner with her."

John turned a page and took a sip of his tea as he considered how much to tell Sherlock. "Nope. Mary and I broke up."

"Ah. I'm see, that must have been-"

"It's fine. I broke it off," interrupted John, still not looking up.

"Oh...?"

"Don't really want to talk about it yet. Still working through a few things," said John. He frowned at the journal and then turned the page. "But there you have it; I'm all yours."

John glanced over the top of his medical journal and found Sherlock staring at him, a small, pleased expression illuminating his face. John fought the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. He cleared his throat.

"Thought I might watch the new Bond movie," he said, apropos of nothing. "I've ordered pizza." He glanced again at Sherlock. "Interested?"

Sherlock held his gaze. "Very," he said.


	10. With animal ears

**Warning for this chapter:** Off screen animal cruelty

**Day 10: With animal ears**

John and Sherlock were halfway through Skyfall when Sherlock's phone buzzed. They were both sitting on the sofa, both on their respective sides, not touching at all, and it was completely normal, just like any other pizza and movie night at home at Baker St. Except, it wasn't.

Despite Daniel Craig kicking arse spectacularly, the entire movie John had been acutely aware of the fact that Sherlock was sitting beside him, a scant half metre away. Their feet, both sets kicked up on the coffee table, were even closer. The latent potential seemed to prickle along his skin and in the scene when Bond was bound and felt up by Raoul Silva in a display of homoeroticism, John felt suddenly self-conscious and had to force himself not to glance at Sherlock. It was bad enough that he'd blushed.

It wasn't that he'd even thought about doing anything with Sherlock (all right, aside from his vivid memory of walking in on him mid-wank that seemed to perniciously haunt John's own masturbatory fantasies). He'd been steadfastly putting off dealing with Sherlock's cryptic confession and what it might mean in regards to their friendship. Hell, he didn't even know if Sherlock was interested in him sexually. John had already admitted to himself that he loved the man, at least platonically. Maybe that's all Sherlock had meant too. Maybe John had misread.

Sherlock picked it up and flicked to the message. "Ohhh..." he said in exactly the tone of voice that John knew meant someone had done something very unpleasant and very interesting both at the same time. He hit the pause button on the DVD player.

"Lestrade?" John asked, his pulse quickening at the prospect of a case. Finally a chance to prove to himself that he'd made the right decision.

"Mm," said Sherlock, tapping back a reply. He glanced up and seemed to notice John watching him. "Case."

"Now?"

Sherlock's lips twitched, his gaze flickering over John's face for a moment. "We can finish the movie," he offered.

John shook his head. "Don't be daft. What's it about then?"

Sherlock beamed at him and was on his feet in seconds. "Kidnapping and extortion, but here's the fun part, they're targeting household pets."

John blinked. "That is a bit odd." He got to his feet and followed Sherlock to their coats.

"The victims are sentimental, usually old. The first blackmail letter comes with their faithful companion's ear," said Sherlock winding his scarf around his long neck.

"Oh, really," winced John. "That's not right." He pulled on his shoes.

"No, but effective. Well. There's a fresh one, and worse, the pet owner's son is missing too."

"Not a kid too?"

"No, he's thirty-seven. The blackmail victim is sixty-five."

"Any ideas."

Sherlock pulled open the door. "About seven. Come along John, a man's life maybe at stake and poor Fifi-Tinkerbell will never be Best in Show again."

John grinned and then they were racing down the stairs, hailing a cab. The game was on.


	11. Wearing kigurumis

**Day 11: Wearing kigurumis**

Sherlock and John met Lestrade at the home of Enid Wilson, the latest victim. Sherlock brushed past him to look about the crime scene but Lestrade clapped John on the shoulder.

"John, you're here. Wondered if we'd see you again, the way Sherlock's been showing up by himself all week."

John frowned. "Sherlock's been helping you this week? He never mentioned."

"Oh. Well. Yeah. There's been a couple of minor things and he's been looking into some cold cases for us. Keeping himself busy, he said."

John looked over to where Sherlock was examining the window ledge. Sherlock _had_ been doing cases, all week. By himself. Without asking John to join him. As if he'd taken John's admonition to heart. As if he was trying to make sure John didn't feel the need to choose between him and Mary...

"Oh right. Of course. I wondered why the flat was so clean." John thought of Sherlock's expression when he'd finally admitted he'd broken up with Mary, the surprise and, almost, relief. Had Sherlock started to try to move on, to adjust to not having John in his life? The thought made John's stomach twist.

He strode over to where Sherlock was examining the Fifi-Tinkerbell's food bowl.

"John, hand me a sample bag," said Sherlock. "Left pocket. My coat."

John reached into the left hand pocket of Sherlock's coat and located a sample bag amongst the various odds and ends hidden in there- was that string?- a rubber ball? and handed it over. Sherlock slipped some of the poodle's uneaten dog food into the bag, sealed it and stuffed it into his right hand pocket.

He stood gracefully and looked down at John. "Upstairs, I want to see the son's room."

John nodded and Lestrade pointed the way, up the narrow, carpeted staircase. Billy Wilson's room was small, cramped and untidy. Every available surface was full and there were piles of clothes on the floor. One or two empty takeaway containers lay on the floor and there was a decidedly odd odour. The walls were decorated with posters of films and naked cartoon women. There was a computer in the corner and a forensic tech was in the process of pulling it to bits to take it away for examination.

Sherlock went to the window ledge and then stepped back, swirled around the room once before sitting on the bed and bouncing slightly.  
He stood up.

"Time to go, John, I want to get this sample analysed."

"You don't want to look at the computer?"

"No. It will be at New Scotland Yard anyway, if we need to see it. I don't think we do. Besides," in Sherlock's fingers there flickered a post-it-note before it was secreted away again. "Gmail password. We have all we need."

John smirked. "Want to fill me in?"

"In the cab, time is wasting."

John listened to Sherlock explain why the son was actually part of the pet-kidnapping gang, that he'd done a runner to join his partner and Fifi-Tinkerbell was just one last malicious act of revenge against his mother. Things John had seen but hadn't even thought much about were presented as evidence, he found himself, once again astounded by Sherlock's brilliance and also tingling with pride. This was _his_ friend, _his_ colleague, _his_ Sherlock. To think, he might have stepped away from this, from him.

"So, I'm certain we'll find a toxin in the dog food, I just need to read Wilson's email and we'll find out where his partner lives," Sherlock said and then seemed to notice John watching him; his focus shifted, no longer dancing about the corridors of his mind palace, but now directed at John, John's face, John's lips, John's eyes. Sherlock fell silent and his gaze and expression softened. He cleared his throat.

John smiled softly. "That was brilliant," he said. "As always. You are...brilliant."

Sherlock gave a quiet huff, but the corner of his mouth turned up in a pleased half-smile. He glanced away. "It's simple enough if you're paying attention, as usual you see but do not observe," he said.

John shook his head in amusement and he turned to look out the window himself.

They went to Barts where Sherlock ran tests on the dog food and some dirt he'd picked up by the window sill while John had been talking to Lestrade. While they waited for the results, Sherlock hacked into Billy Wilson's Gmail account and, from there, his social networking sites. They had a name, they had an address and they even had plane tickets for San Moritz the next day (which Sherlock cancelled).

Soon they were in a cab, heading towards Croydon.

"Stop here," Sherlock said suddenly, tapping the glass partition between him and the cabbie. The cab driver pulled up next to a purple and gold painted late night adult shop. John frowned. Surely not.

"We'll only be a few minutes," Sherlock told the cabbie, throwing him some money for the fare so far. "John, come on," he said as he bounded out of the cab.

John felt his ears heat and sudden panic form in his stomach. No, nope, not ready yet. He grabbed Sherlock's elbow. "Sherlock," he hissed. "Tell me this is for the case."

Sherlock frowned. "Of course it's for the case. What else- " Suddenly Sherlock went pink. "You- I- That would be highly presumptuous of me John," he said stiffly and, face still flaming, pushed his way through the doors into the shop.

John blushed furiously himself, mortified that not only had he jumped to the wrong conclusion but now Sherlock knew that as well. He rubbed at his eyes and tried to push all thoughts of Sherlock and sex toys out of his mind.

Sherlock was scanning the shelves quickly when John entered the shop. He averted his eyes from lurid pink, flesh and glow in the dark coloured items. Sherlock dashed into the costume section and he shoved a costume packet into John's hands as he joined him.

"This should fit you," he said.

John stared at the packet. "What the-?"

But Sherlock had already charged up to the counter.

"How are we this evening," asked the attendant, an effete, thin young man with several piercings and eye liner. "Oh these are sweet. For you both? You'll look adorable."

"I'll take those too," Sherlock said, pointing at the bright red and pink gift helium balloons, most obviously intended for hens nights by the look of them.

"Sure thing. Bit of a party then, is it?"

"Can we get changed in here?" Sherlock asked ignoring his chatter.

"Sure, sweetie," the young man said, pointing at the change room as he rung up the items. "You can go in together but no hanky panky. We'll lose our licence." He winked and John felt his face heat again.

"You first Sherlock," he muttered, taking hold of the balloons and fishing out his wallet to pay.

Several minutes later they were in the cab again, John feeling like a right tit.

_Kigurumi _it had said on the packet, but what it sodding was a fucking adult-sized kid's onesie pyjamas. He was dressed as a hamster, a bloody hamster, and Sherlock, the git was a dragon.

They wore their jackets over the top and squeezed into the waiting cab with their balloons.

The cab driver, an older gent in his sixties had a good laugh.

"Don't ask," John said to him. "I feel like a bloody pillock."

"You look adorable John," said Sherlock. "Doesn't he?"

"Sorry mate," said the cabbie. "But you do."

John took a deep breath and wondered if this kind of thing was a turn on for Sherlock. He hoped not. Then he had a small crisis at himself for even wondering.

"Be grateful I didn't make you dress as Sailor Moon, John," said Sherlock. "You don't have the legs for it."

Suddenly, without warning, John had a very clear, technicolour image of Sherlock dressed as an anime girl. His internal crisis got just a bit bigger.

"Hm," he said, aiming for levity. "I think you'd pull it off though. Long legs."

He was gratified to see the pink flush form across Sherlock's cheekbones.

They reached the address in Croydon where Billy Wilson was hiding with his lover, Chris Schwartz.

John paid the cabbie and then followed after Sherlock with the balloons up to the front door. They shed their coats and dropped them to one side. There were lights on inside the house and Sherlock pressed the door bell. They waited. After a moment there was the sound of footsteps and grumbling.

The door was opened and a tall, skinny man, wearing a red band t-shirt of dubious cleanliness opened the door.

"Happy birthday to you!" Sherlock started singing and John quickly joined in. The man stared at them with the bemused, embarrassed look of someone sent an awkward singing telegram for their birthday. At eleven fucking pm at night.

"Happy birthday dearrrrr Chrrisssss...Happy birthday to youuuuuuuuuuu," they concluded.

Chris blushed. "Um. Thanks. Um. Did Harry set you up to this?"

Sherlock was in full acting mode, his expression a careful mix of cheeky and ebullient. "Dear Chris, Happy birthday, love Billy," he said. He winked. John swallowed.

Chris shook his head and chuckled. "I'll kill him, the twat. All right lads, thanks for that."

John handed him the balloons.

"Aren't you going to invite us in," said Sherlock with a look that John classified as fucking filthy (and even though he knew it was all a coldly calculated act, John had never been so jealous of a skinny twat with acne and brown sauce stains in his life). He lowered his deep baritone another octave. "You haven't got to the good bit yet." John blinked and suddenly, horrifyingly realised what Sherlock was up to with this. Fuck no. Seriously?

Chris's eyes went wide and his eyes flicked down over Sherlock's dragon-clad form. "Oh! Oh! Right! Oh, it's one of _those_ telegrams."

"The stripping kind, yeah," said Sherlock with a purr, and somehow managed to do Zoolander's Blue Steel without looking like a prat. John's mouth was uncomfortably dry. Cheekbones. Fucking cheekbones. "Just me. My friend here is my security. Can't be too careful, you know how it is. So...do you want your present?" He waggled his eyebrows and shimmied.

John had seen Billy's email and social networking accounts. He knew Billy's tastes ranged into the animated and anthropomorphised, so he had to admit that Sherlock's concept of a stripping dragon kigurumi might just work. The idea, however, of Sherlock taking off his kit for some skeevy, pet-mutilating, maladjusted tosser when John hadn't even had a chance to _think_ about whether he found him attractive or not (he thought maybe that was a yes) was doing terrible things to John's blood-pressure.

"Uh, yeah, sure! Yeah, wow. Come on in," said Chris, opening the door and gesturing towards the bare space in what was, an admittedly grubby living room. He shut the door behind them. "Just a minute," he said. "Do you need anything to set up?"

Sherlock held up his iPhone. "Nope, although if you've got an iPhone speaker dock the sound will be better."

"Uh, yeah, over there-" Chris said and then dashed up the hall. John could hear him yelling. "Billy, you utter toss, get down here! Come on you have to enjoy this too, you're not going to make me do this alone, you big git."

Sherlock grinned at John with a mad gleam in his eyes.

"You know what you're doing?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "Always," he said.

"You wanker," said John.

There was an extra set of footsteps pounding down the stairs and then a chunky man, with close-cropped slightly balding hair appeared behind Chris in the doorway, eyes wide.

"Hello," smiled Sherlock in full character. "You must be Billy, come on then, the more the merrier."

The two men shuffled into the living room and sat on the couch. Sherlock fiddled around with his phone for a moment and then he looked up, fingers on the zipper of his dragon suit.

And his face changed. No longer bright, perky and slightly insolent, suddenly Sherlock was Sherlock again, and Sherlock in full detective mode at that, expression hard and eyes calculating and cold. John stepped into the doorway, unzipped his hamster suit and put his hand on his gun, tucked into his waistband.

Sherlock's lips twisted into a triumphant smirk. "Billy Wilson, Sherlock Holmes. I believe your mother is wondering where you are."

Both men lept to their feet.

"Don't try to run. The police will be here in a few minutes. And besides, John has a gun."

John drew out his sig and waved his free hand encouragingly.

"Now, why don't you boys sit down and we'll talk about Fifi-Tinkerbell?"


	12. Making out

**Day 12: Making out**

The case had been wrapped up and the two extortionists taken into custody. Fifi-Tinkerbell had been whisked to the vet and evidence had been gathered for all the other blackmail attempts.

Lestrade thought Sherlock and John's method of capturing the missing Billy Wilson was the funniest thing ever. Particularly as John was still dressed as a hamster when he'd arrived.

He was so amused he offered to give them both a lift back to Baker Street out of sheer good humour.

John managed one more weak grin at Lestrade's oh-so-hilarious parting shot and then followed Sherlock up the stairs to 221B. He felt tired but was still buzzing from the excitement of the case and there was a curling sense of anticipation, of expectation in his gut. The possessive jealousy he'd felt tonight had made him admit to himself that whatever he felt for Sherlock, it included an element of sexual attraction. He just wasn't sure what he was going to do with that.

He shut the door and dropped his hamster suit on a chair and hung up his coat. He looked up and caught Sherlock regarding him with a bemused expression.

"What?" he asked with a laugh.

"That was fun. Admit it, it was fun. We were brilliant." Sherlock's eyes danced as he hung up his coat.

John shook his head and looked up at him, overcome with affection. "Yes, yes, you were brilliant and you are mad, completely mad, you know that? I mean seriously, who dresses up as a dragon-strip-o-gram to break a pet-kidnapping ring?"

Sherlock leaned against the door and surveyed him, as if he were happy just to enjoy the view. "The kind of man who wears a hamster suit and carries a Sig," he said with a silent laugh, the kind that pressed his chin against his throat and made him seem so stupidly young and carefree. Happy.

John glowed inside. He licked his lips. "Well. I'm glad you took me along," he said, feeling off kilter, his pulse a bit too fast.

Sherlock glanced at him. "I'm glad you came along."

John leaned against the back of a chair, doing his best to appear nonchalant. "Lestrade told me about the cases this week," he said. "I, um, I appreciate what you were trying to do."

Sherlock shrugged. "You have a life outside of this, John, I-" He glanced away. "I knew you were going to make a choice, I thought-" He snorted, a look of self-deprecation crossing his face. "It was a last ditch effort. I didn't realise you'd already chosen me."

"Yeah, well," said John, feeling the back of his neck heat, he looked away, suddenly finding the coat hooks fascinating. "It wasn't really much of a choice was it?"

He looked back and found Sherlock watching him again.

"What do you want, John? From this? From me?"

John ducked his head and swallowed, then lifted his chin, met Sherlock's gaze. "I don't- I don't know. I mean, I'm happy with this, just friendship, if that's all you want. There's no strings attached to me staying," he added quickly. "But um, that thing you said, that you were going to tell me. I felt that too. When I thought you were dead- I thought, if I had the chance, if only I'd told you, how much you'd meant. How much you mean. To me."

Sherlock stayed still, silent, his gaze unwavering.

John forged on. "I'm not sure what that means. I've never been attracted to a man before and I don't know if that's something- but, tonight, I well," He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "If you want more, I'm okay with trying that. I'd like to try."

Sherlock expression was taut, tense and he released a breath. "I- I would like that too. To try."

"Oh," breathed John. "Oh good."

There were two steps between them. Such a small space. And clearing his throat, his heart pounding, John took them. He licked his lips and reached for Sherlock's cheek, cupping it, gaze flickering between Sherlock's eyes and his lips in an unspoken question. Those lips. That mouth. A kiss. He'd try a kiss. They'd just-

And Sherlock pressed his mouth to John's.

They both stilled. There were warm lips against John's. Warm, soft, full lips. Sherlock's face was pressed against the palm of his hand. John reached up and slid his free hand to the nape of Sherlock's neck. He shut his eyes. His lips parted just at the same moment as Sherlock's did, sparking tingles along his nerve endings and making something burst bright in his chest. Then Sherlock was pushing him back, back against the table, mouth sliding deliciously against his, all pressure, strength and stubble. He tasted good, felt good, and John wanted more. He sucked on Sherlock's bottom lip, slid his tongue against Sherlock's and gripped him closer, tighter. Hard chest against his own, strong hands gripping his shoulders.

Oh God, it felt good, and John felt an unleashing of a tension that he hadn't even known had been there as he licked and sucked and worked his mouth against Sherlock, tasting and feeling and getting as close as humanly possible. And then Sherlock's hips tilted and there was a thigh against his cock and the resulting frisson of arousal made him groan and disconcerted him all at once.

Sherlock drew back, panting, eyes a little wild. He swallowed and stared down at John, nearly bent backwards onto the table.

"That was...that was good," he breathed.

John stared back, and then, suddenly, he couldn't help it, he gave a muffled giggle. "Sorry," he gasped as Sherlock frowned at him. "Sorry. I, it's just, this is you. I'm kissing you. We're snogging. God. I never thought- Can we do it again?"

Sherlock's face creased into a grin as he bent forward and caught John's mouth again. They kissed slowly this time, tongues sliding against each other, sucking on each other's lips, moving in a slow glide. It felt just as good as any other lovely snog John had ever had, but somehow the moment had ended and now, awkwardly, he couldn't get past the fact that he was kissing a man. He _really_ wasn't ready to take this any further, it was too new, and it challenged the way he'd always thought about himself, about love and sex. All the uncomfortable thoughts he'd been pushing aside all week came piling up and the spark of arousal was tempered by the sharp tang of nerves in the pit of his stomach. His libido flagged.

Maybe Sherlock felt the same because he didn't press forward and after a long moment they parted. They smiled at each other ruefully.

John rubbed at his hair, feeling self-conscious. "Um, that, yeah. So. I guess, we could do that. If you like."

"I would. Like that." Sherlock stepped back and smoothed his shirt. John straightened and stood. He caught Sherlock's eye and they both looked away.

"All right. I should- I think I'll go to bed," said John.

"Yes," said Sherlock and made to step past him just as John moved at the same time. They brushed past each other awkwardly.

"Right. I'll just...goodnight," said John.

"Goodnight, John," said Sherlock, and John escaped up to his bedroom.

As John lay in bed, the lights off and his thoughts illuminated behind his eyes, he thought about Sherlock and kissing Sherlock and the possibility of having sex with Sherlock. He had touched another man's cock before, of course, in his capacity as a doctor, usually in the context of 'it really stings when I pee', but not sexually, he hadn't even kissed another man before, hadn't even wanted to. He wanted to kiss Sherlock, he thought, and, in the abstract, he might even want to get off with Sherlock. He remembered the feel of Sherlock's mouth against his, of Sherlock pushing him back against the table and the rasp of stubble against his chin. He slid his hand down his belly and lower, touched himself and imagined he was touching another man's prick, imagined another man was touching him. Sherlock's hand, Sherlock's cock. Thought of Sherlock pushing him back, kissing him again, pushing him further, reaching between them and stroking him hard, his mouth against John's, mouth on John's jaw, on his lips, tongue against his, hard and firm and masculine. Sherlock kissing him as he tugged him off, nothing soft, pliant or comfortable, just hard edges and pushing him outside his comfort zone, sharp and exhilarating.

John bit his lip to stifle his groan.

Later, spent and sleepy, John buried his face in his pillow and snorted in amazement. He'd kissed Sherlock. Bloody hell.


	13. Eating ice cream

Shameless Brit-com references plus added smut!

**Warnings for this chapter:** homophobic language, sexual scene

**Day 13: Eating Ice Cream**

The next morning, in the bright, unforgiving light of day, it all seemed a bit unbelievable. John came down to breakfast and found Sherlock sitting at the table with a coffee, reading the paper as if there hadn't been a seismic shift in their relationship last night. He didn't look up or even seem to notice John's arrival. The normality of the scene was at once both comforting and a dose of cold water and John wondered for a moment if he'd even dreamt the exchange, the promise and released tension of the kiss.

But normality was good. Nothing need change. A snog, here and there. He knew how Sherlock felt, Sherlock knew how he felt. Now it would be okay to follow through on those intense moments of eye contact when their gazes locked and something urgent hummed in the air between them. To be able to grab and push and press and close that distance, to express with lips and tongue and teeth just how fucking much John felt for Sherlock- that would be good.

He made himself breakfast and sat down at the table. He snagged the sports section of the paper and set it on the table to his left. He sipped his tea and had just turned the page when he felt Sherlock's hand fold over his. John glanced over at him in surprise. Sherlock looked up briefly and squeezed his hand once before withdrawing it, and turned back to his paper.

John stared after him for moment longer. Huh. He smiled to himself. Well. He returned to his paper.

"Feel like a trip to the seaside, John?" Sherlock asked suddenly, his voice low and rumbling.

John glanced up again in question.

"There's a dance studio, in Brighton, owner has contacted me. Might be nothing, but it sounds mildly promising."

John blinked. "Yeah, sure."

"Take an overnight bag, we may end up staying," said Sherlock, still reading the newspaper.

John studied his profile for a long moment. "All right," he said.

It was as John was packing his toiletries in his overnight case that he paused and considered. In a fit of boy-scout level preparedness he threw in a strip of condoms and the bottle of 2-in-1 lube and massage oil he'd picked up on a mini-break with Mary. He quickly zipped up the bag and refused to think about his motivations.

An hour and half train journey later and they were in Brighton.

The dance studio owner fell over himself with relief when Sherlock arrived and arrangements were made for Sherlock and John to come by that evening to see if they could identify the thief.

Afterwards, John and Sherlock walked along the boardwalk, towards the budget accommodation John had looked up online before they'd left.

"Here, want an ice cream?" John asked as they passed an ice cream vendor.

"No, you go ahead," said Sherlock, so John did and they walked over to railing to look out onto the sea. It was not a good day for a trip to the beach. It was rainy and cold and John sighed and thought of sunny beaches and tropical seas. He and Mary had been talking about a trip to Spain sometime in the future. He wondered if a holiday, an actual holiday was something Sherlock would ever do.

They ate the ice cream as they usually did, Sherlock reaching for the cone and taking bites off the side until he'd managed to consume half. Mary hadn't liked sharing ice cream or any desserts. After the first time John had tried to share with her she'd made him order his own. He supposed he should have taken it as a sign.

They stood, looking out at the grey, white-flecked sea, the wind blowing spats of rain against them in small, stinging drops. It really was fucking unpleasant.

"I can't be Mary, John," said Sherlock suddenly. "I can't give you a normal relationship like she can. I can only be me. We can add sex and we can add physical affection but I'll still act the way I always have. I'll be thoughtless and self-absorbed. You'll still get angry about the kitchen, the milk." He glared out at the water. "I hope you won't regret your choice."

John looked out at the awful grey day, the clouds low and oppressive. He stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"In Afghanistan," he said slowly. "The sky goes on forever, you look up and it's so high and blue and empty and it's in every direction. It makes you feel so small, everything is so small under it, insignificant. I used to crave rainy days and drizzle and shitty beaches like this one. Now I'm home, I miss that sky. I want to look up into blue again and see all the way into space." He paused, watching a small dinghy putter past, braving the elements. "I still choose this."

They were both silent for a while, then he felt Sherlock tug his arm.

"John."

He turned, Sherlock was very close, his eyes as grey and stormy as the day. John exhaled and Sherlock leaned in and kissed him.

Sherlock's lips were cold from the ice cream but his mouth was warm and he tasted like chocolate milk. His nose was cold where it pressed against John's face, and his cheek was cold under John's fingers. His fingers bit into John's arm and John held him tight in return. It was not the best kiss John had ever had, but it was not the worst by any means and he sank into it, on this cold, miserable day, seeking the warmth of Sherlock's mouth, feeling him warming against him in return. Arousal burned, low in the pit of John's stomach. He welcomed it, relief bubbling up effervescent inside his chest, that he could get turned on by this, that they could do this.

They parted slightly, naturally, and John smiled and he leaned for the kiss this time.

Voices intruded on his awareness. Kids, passing by. John slid his hand down Sherlock's back.

"Oh God, look at those two poofs going at it," said a young voice a few metres away.

"Shh Jay, they'll hear you," said another.

"Ohhhh God, they're going to bum each other right there-"

"Shut it, Jay. God, you want to get us smacked in the head?" said another kid.

"Touchy, just having a laugh. Look at them, they don't care. Too into it, thinking about getting home and having some good old bum fun, I'll bet."

John frowned as he realised they were talking about him and Sherlock. He shut his eyes, deciding to ignore them. Teenagers, being idiots. He heard the three of them snigger mockingly. And suddenly this moment of connection and acceptance, something beautiful and good between him and Sherlock, was cheapened and reduced. He saw himself through the eyes of these boys, two middle-aged men groping at each other, embarrassing, shameful. He was sixteen again and some lads he'd thought were cool were catcalling his sister and calling her a dyke, and later, ganging up on him, accusing him of being queer too, because his sister was, so he must be too, mustn't he? He froze and Sherlock stilled against him, and John was suddenly, fiercely angry, that these little twats would try to make him feel ashamed, to belittle him for what he felt for this amazing, brilliant man in front of him. They had no fucking right and he wasn't going to let them.

John grabbed Sherlock's arse and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss. He tried to block out their voices as they nattered on with their rubbish.

"Ohhh that's not right. There should be a law or something-"

"Hullo lads, ready to go," said a fourth voice.

"Mates of your Dad over there, Neil," said the one known as Jay.

"What?"

"Those two butt-munchers. Which one takes it up the arse, do you reckon?" mused Jay.

"Seriously Jay. Come on let's go," said one of the others nervously.

"I reckon it's the tall one. He looks like a proper freak."

_That_ on the other hand, _that_ John would not ignore. He pulled away and pinned the four little twats with the look that made war-hardened marines jump to attention.

"Oi, piss off, you fucking little homophobes!" he shouted. He dropped his bag on the ground. The kids, just spotty-faced kids, gaped at him.

Sherlock adjusted his gloves and stepped beside him.

"Don't bother John," he said, deep baritone carrying with beautiful clarity across the concrete. "'Jay' there is only compensating for his sexual inadequacy and his failure to indulge his pubescent fantasies with anything other than his hand."

Jay, a weedy kid with stupid, over-styled hair, spluttered.

"Hah, did you hear that Jay, he called you a wanker, hah!" chortled a speccy kid with a bit of a toffy accent.

Another kid, also with stupid hair, laughed too. "Hah he did! Come on let's go-"

"What? He never! What is he going on about?" spluttered the one called Jay. "Stupid faggot!"

"Sherlock," said John loudly. "I came here to eat ice cream and kick arse. And my ice cream is finished."

He took a step towards them and they all bolted.

John chuckled but his heart still pounded with outrage. "_Should_ have kicked their arses, little pricks."

He felt Sherlock come up behind him, his long hands on John's hips, he pulled John back against him and rested cheek against the side of John's face. John exhaled and shoved his hands back in his pockets. It felt okay, this embrace.

"You care about what people think," Sherlock said.

"You aren't a freak," he said tightly. "And I won't be ashamed about this."

Sherlock's hands slid about John's middle and held him tight. "No, you're not ashamed," he said in a wondering tone. "You're nervous and you're uncertain but you're not ashamed."

John tilted his head back so he could see Sherlock's profile. "No. Not ashamed to be with you." Sherlock's embrace was very comfortable. It was quite cold out here on the boardwalk. His eyes flickered speculatively over Sherlock's lips, his throat. "Um." He wet his bottom lip. "Want to go check into our hotel?"

Sherlock glanced down at him and John felt his embrace tighten fractionally. "Yes. Please."

John exhaled again. "All right. Yeah, let's go."

* * *

Sherlock kissed him the second John shut the door to the hotel room. He pressed him up against the door and caught his mouth, fierce and possessive. John's eyelids fluttered shut and he leaned into the kiss, heart hammering in his chest as Sherlock's tongue slid against his, body pressed from chest to thigh against John's.

John slid his hand into Sherlock's curls and Sherlock groaned. John's libido was obviously tired of being kept in check and his arousal flared. He pushed Sherlock back, grabbing at his coat, pushing it off his shoulders, Sherlock caught his mouth again pulling his arms free from his sleeves, pulled off his scarf and then tugged John's jacket from shoulders in return. They kissed their way to the bed (one bed, Queen size, John had requested one room and let the assumption stand) and tumbled onto it.

John rolled onto his side and pulled Sherlock close, hooking a leg over his calf. He couldn't get enough of his mouth, the shape and feel of his lips, the glide of his tongue, the light abrasion of his chin and jaw against John's. His arousal bloomed and he didn't second guess it, let his hand explore, running over Sherlock's side, his hip, the curve of his arse to squeeze and pull closer, his groin flush against John's thigh. There was definitely a hardness there and the knowledge made John whimper.

Sherlock's hand was on his waist, long fingers dipping under the waistband of his jeans. He shifted suddenly, and with a grunt, thrust his crotch up against John's. John groaned and leaned into the contact. They rocked against each other, kissing and frotting, a slow panting, gasping rut.

Sherlock drew his lips down John's jaw, mouthed at his throat and John shivered, tilting his head, his hands sliding up Sherlock's back, up under his suit jacket and shirt. They really were wearing too many clothes. He tugged at Sherlock's jacket, reached up to push it off his shoulders. With a groan Sherlock pulled back and sat up, hair mussed, cheeks flushed and eyes dark.

"Too many clothes," panted John and pulled off his own jumper.

Sherlock snagged another kiss and tugged off his suit jacket. His fingers fell to his shirt, swiftly undoing the buttons. John paused in the middle of his own buttons, mouth dry as the bare expanse of Sherlock's chest appeared, smooth and well-defined with a sparse scattering of light hair, the glimpse of the bruise, green and yellow now, across his ribs. Sherlock half-naked. John swallowed. Sherlock's fingers stilled and John looked up and saw Sherlock watching him, a flush on his cheeks. John pushed the fabric of Sherlock's shirt aside and traced his fingertips gently over the healing bruise. He finished unbuttoning the last two buttons and pushed the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, exposing his torso completely. Muscle and sinew and creamy skin drawn taut. His masculine nipples were a dusky pink.

"Am I so different?" Sherlock asked quietly, expression unreadable.

John licked his lips. He laughed weakly. "I've seen you naked before, don't know why it's turning me on so much."

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and reached for John's shirt, unbuttoning him swiftly. "You on the other hand, John Watson, have always been very circumspect. I want to see you, touch you, taste you. I want you. I want all of you."

John's breath caught. "Oh. Oh God," he gasped. "Okay." He pulled off his shirt, tugging his arms from his sleeves. Sherlock's gaze raked over John's body, his fingertips gliding from shoulder to sternum and back, his thumb rubbed against John's scar and then over entry wound on the other side of his shoulder as well. Then he bent his lips and John shivered at the damp slide of tongue. He groaned and buried his mouth and nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck, sucking and licking in sheer retaliation. Sherlock bit out a whimper and pushed John back onto the bed, looming over him, his eyes raking over his body.

John's pulse raced and he found a safe place to rest his hands on Sherlock's waist. Shit, he felt like a bloody teenager, he shouldn't feel this nervous.

"Hope you know what you're doing," he said, huffing a laugh. "Because I have no idea."

Sherlock bent his mouth to John's chest again, flicking his left nipple with the tip of his tongue and repeating the motion on the right. John hummed and rubbed his calf against Sherlock's.

Sherlock kissed his sternum and his ribs and then lay his cheek against John's left breast, his breath warm against John's chest.

"Your heart rate is elevated," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating through John's skin. He reached down and John twitched as Sherlock's palm closed over his denim-covered erection. "That night, when you walked in on me, John," he said, his voice a low purr. "I was thinking about you. About having you, in that alleyway."

"Oh God..." John groaned. "I thought about you later, thought about you touching yourself." He lifted his hips into Sherlock's palm.

Sherlock hummed and rubbed his hand up John's crotch. "While _you_ touched yourself?"

"Uhuh," gasped John, his secret desires peeled open in the face of Sherlock's touch. "Yeah. Yeah I did."

Sherlock thrust his groin against John's thigh and inhaled sharply. He pressed a kiss to John's belly, his intense gaze prickling John's skin as his fingers traced each rib, each blemish. John's abdominal muscles tensed and Sherlock explored them too. He kissed lower, another kiss, then another, then another until he was tonguing the thin trail of hair that led from John's navel down to his jeans. Oh God. Sherlock's fingers traced the outline of his erection, uncomfortably hard now, confined in his jeans. John knew what would come next and the surge of desire made him gasp. Sherlock was going to do this. _He_ was going to do this. The consequences, the expectations, the thought of Sherlock so close and intimate with his prick- in that moment, John felt suddenly, awfully exposed. He swallowed. He reached down and stroked Sherlock's hair with a trembling hand.

"Um. Hey. Come up here for a kiss, will you?" John asked, his voice not as steady as he'd like. This was getting a bit much. He just needed a kiss.

Sherlock's hand dragged over John's thigh once and then he looked up, a tightness to his expression. "John?"

John tried a smile. "Not that I'm saying no, to um, but, just- please?"

Sherlock's expression melted and in an instant he had moved up his body and was pressing his lips very gently to John's. John wrapped his hand around the nape of Sherlock's neck and held him close, kissing him slowly, feeling the nervousness recede. This was good, they were in this together, it wasn't some experiment and Sherlock wasn't going to dissect him.

Sherlock ran his hand through John's hair, stroking the shell of his ear with his thumb and returned the kiss. After a moment he drew his mouth away, trailing kisses down John's jaw before pressing his brow against John's shoulder. He splayed his hand on John's chest.

"I want you," he breathed. "I've wanted you for so long. Let me, John."

The words, dipped in chocolate baritone as they were, rumbled through John straight to his groin.

John hissed in a breath. "God, I want you, too," he breathed and ran his palm over Sherlock's flushed chest, flat and lean. As Sherlock ran his hand down John's belly, John grazed his hand over masculine nipples, a flat belly and caressed his bruise. He skimmed over Sherlock's waistband to dip over the curve of his arse, to cup and squeeze, and then, in an act of pure daring, drew his hand around to the front of Sherlock's trousers and stroked his fingers along the taut outline found there. Sherlock's cock bulged, hard and long against the confines of his trousers and John pressed his hand against the outline, rubbing in sympathy.

Sherlock groaned and opening his mouth against John's shoulder and pressed into the touch of John's hand. He reached for the front of John's jeans, returning the favour. John's hips jerked up into the touch and they rocked against each other in mutual, building arousal.

"Yeah, just like this," John murmured. "Can we do it, just like this."

"Mm," groaned Sherlock, rising up, arching under the ministrations of John's hand, one knee between John's. "Want to touch you."

John whimpered and he fumbled at the button on Sherlock's trousers, until Sherlock pulled up, batting his hands away and reached for the fastening on his trousers himself. John held his breath, quickly undoing his jeans as he watched Sherlock unzip his trousers and push them and his pants down over his hips, his long, flushed erection springing free in a nest of auburn curls.

John's memory of Sherlock's cock had not involved such a degree of detail; he was long but elegant, uncut and the foreskin was drawn back slightly, his bollocks neatly tucked under his cock. John reached for his own erection and started stroking as he stared at Sherlock's prick. Sherlock's cock twitched and John heard a whimper. He dragged his eyes upwards to see Sherlock staring at him, bottom lip caught between his teeth, two bright spots of colour high on his cheekbones as he dropped his hand to touch himself. John watched, arousal coiling through his groin, his belly, as Sherlock's large hand slid up and down his swollen prick. It was hotter than John ever thought it would be. He pushed his jeans and pants down lower, parting his thighs and settling into a nice rhythm, timing his strokes with Sherlock's, imagining- Suddenly he realised he didn't have to imagine. He stopped stroking and reached up, touching his fingertips lightly to the back of Sherlock's hand, a request for permission.

Sherlock's breath was shaking as he moved his hand and he sank down next to John, reaching over and closing his palm over John's cock. John bit his lip. It felt good, the way Sherlock thumbed at the frenulum, the way his fingers stroked along the shaft, his hand enclosed nearly the whole length.

"Sherlock, fuck," John breathed and closed his palm around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's cock felt different in his hand to his own, it was thinner, but longer, it curved up slightly, thicker in the middle, while John's angled slightly to one side, but at least John knew what felt good on a cock and the way Sherlock's breath caught, the way he whimpered with every change in touch, was very flattering.

With a bit of fumbling they both managed to get a steady rhythm going. They leaned into each other, dragging kisses against each other's lips, legs tangling, hips bucking as they stroked in a concordant rhythm.

"John," gasped Sherlock, his voice rough, mouth pressed, open and wet against John's shoulder. "John." He gripped John's fist with his free hand, holding it steady as he thrust into it, hard and fast and then with a strangled groan, the rhythm of his other hand on John's cock faltering, his muscles tensed and quivering, he thrust, once, twice more and came, spilling into John's hand, onto John's belly. He fell into John, panting, shaking, and John kissed his forehead, his cheek, as he gripped Sherlock's arm with his sticky hand and closed his clean hand over Sherlock's slackened fist, thrusting hard and quick, on the edge of orgasm himself. Sherlock caught his mouth and tightened his grip and John grit his teeth and tensed against him, hitting that peak of pleasure and falling down the other side.

"Oh God, Sherlock, oh-" he gasped, trembling as his orgasm washed over him, the pleasure of having another person to sink into, to fall against. He kissed whichever parts of Sherlock he could reach as he collapsed beside him. He twitched as Sherlock released his cock and flopped down beside him, semen covered hand still atop John's belly.

* * *

AN: The kick arse and eat ice cream reference was paraphrased from the IT Crowd. I borrowed the boys from the Inbetweeners as well.


	14. Genderswapped

**Warnings for this chapter:**gender swap, cross-dressing, messing around with gender roles, sexual scene

**Day 14: Genderswapped**

"All right?" John asked breathlessly, rolling his head to the side to look at Sherlock. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply, lips parted, face flushed.

"I...yes, I-" He opened his eyes and turned towards John. "John- that- I-" He gaze darted across John's face. "It was better than masturbation. Why was it better?"

John blinked. "Um. God I hope it was. I don't know-"

"The satisfaction level was markedly higher. I don't chemistry should be the same, although the prolactin dosage seemed higher. Why would that be? Emotions? Physical stimulus? The uncertainty of an unknown variable- you?"

"Sherlock," said John firmly.

Sherlock blinked and refocused and John's chest glowed with fondness. He cupped Sherlock's cheek with his hand.

"It doesn't matter," he said firmly. "Did you like it?"

Sherlock blushed. "I. Yes." His eyes widened. "Was- did you?"

John couldn't contain the foolish grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Yeah, I did."

Sherlock relaxed. "Good. That's - good." He swirled his forefinger through the smear of ejaculate still on John's stomach and raised it to his lips. His tongue darted out delicately and he thoughtfully licked his finger.

"Oh God," groaned John.

"I said I wanted to taste you, John," Sherlock said. "You wouldn't let me perform fellatio."

John sucked in a breath. "Maybe next time," he said and then gave a breathless laugh because he'd just turned down a blow job and was equivocating about another. He rolled onto his side meeting Sherlock's pout and was filled with such affection that he couldn't stop himself from leaning forward and kissing his ridiculous face. Sherlock curled into the kiss, pushing John back and sliding his tongue and lips against his. Post-sex kissing, the soft sensation of sinking into one another's skin. John sighed with satisfaction and smiled against Sherlock's mouth.

"God, you feel nice," he said.

Sherlock nipped his bottom lip.

"So," John said in a teasing voice. "Did you just not notice the difference between sex and wanking with your previous partners or was I that good?"

Sherlock kissed the corner of his mouth before answering. "I've never orgasmed before with a sexual partner."

John blinked. "Never? I mean- oh. Never- You've never had sex?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course I've had sex. I've brought someone else to orgasm before, I just haven't wanted-" He sucked on his top lip and grimaced. "I'm not completely inexperienced."

John pulled back to see his face. What kind of sex had Sherlock had that he'd never received an orgasm from his sexual partner? It was true there'd been times when John or his partner had just done it for the other person and not worried about getting off, especially in longer relationships, where the occasional IOU was par for the course, but... Sherlock? The worst case scenario sprang to mind, of Sherlock fucked up on cocaine, giving someone a blow job for another hit. Or maybe it was while he was away. What had Sherlock had to do to stay alive? How did you ask that? John decided on a safer option. "So um, you've- never been in a relationship, a sexual one I mean, before?"

Sherlock groaned and rolled onto his back so he could safely stare at the ceiling. "Must we?"

"Um no, we don't have to, I mean we have just started shagging, so I assume you'll tell me if there's anything I need to know, healthwise." He cleared his throat. "We should probably both get tested."

"I'm clean. Mycroft made sure of that when he sent me to rehab."

"So it was before-"

Sherlock sighed. "Really John. I've had a total of two sexual partners. I have performed fellatio twice, manual relief once, aside from oral sex I have never been penetrated and have never penetrated anyone. And I've neither wanted nor received an orgasm from either partner. I was not coerced nor in a non-consensual situation. I had...reasons...for what I did, they didn't involve being pawed by imbeciles."

John licked his lips, digesting this information. "Right. Okay. Thank you, for telling me that. Do you want to know my sexual history too?"

"No." Sherlock's gaze flickered towards him. His expression softened a fraction. "I don't wish to hear about anyone else who's had the privilege of sharing your bed. You've already said you've never been attracted to a man before, and you would not have had sex with someone to whom you weren't attracted."

John smiled fondly. "So what does that say about you, then genius?"

Sherlock's gaze met his again, a little shyly. "That I am very fortunate."

John sucked in a deep breath, his chest impossibly tight. "Idiot," he said fondly and took a kiss. Sherlock sighed against his mouth and kissed him with a firmness that hadn't been present in their recent languid kiss. Finally though, with a sigh that sounded somewhat regretful, Sherlock pulled back. He rolled off the bed and stood, giving John the briefest glimpse of bare arse before hitching up his trousers and padding into the bathroom. John heard the tap running. He stretched, flexing his back and shoulder muscles, and then swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood. Sherlock returned from the bathroom, buttoning up his shirt. John hitched up his jeans and went to clean up. As he emerged from the bathroom Sherlock was pulling on his coat.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"You stay here. I just need to pick up a few things for tonight." Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck.

John studied him closely. "Oh. All right, then."

Sherlock saw him watching and frowned. "Don't."

"What?"

"Get all-" he flapped his hand in the direction of John's face. "Stoic. Trying not to show I've hurt your feelings."

John snorted. "Hardly. Go on, go out and romp around the town on your secret business. Just don't come back with any body parts, all right? I'm going to go downstairs and get something to eat."

Sherlock looked taken aback. "I thought we'd eat together."

John blinked, surprised and somewhat mollified. "I'll get some take away then," he said. "Eat before we go to the dance class tonight."

Sherlock nodded once, apparently satisfied with this arrangement and disappeared out the door.

John returned to bed for a little while, but failed to sleep, instead replaying the events of the afternoon over again in his mind. He thought about Sherlock's revelation of his sexual experience or lack thereof. John had always assumed Sherlock had given up on sex, he'd never realised how very little he'd had to start with. Any questions he'd had about Irene Adler had been answered. Had Sherlock ever had a boyfriend, a girlfriend? Forget sex, what about a nice snog on this sofa? Sherlock's kissing technique was fine so he must have done some of that at some point.

It occurred to John that, technically, he'd just taken Sherlock's virginity. This realisation put everything in a new light. John was filled with a surge of protectiveness, possessiveness and renewed confidence. He was the only other person to have ever given Sherlock an orgasm aside from Sherlock himself and the possibilities of all the ways he could give Sherlock more orgasms, could make it good for him, loomed with glittering potential. Suddenly their relative inexperience seemed on par. John may have received blow jobs before but he'd never given them. Sherlock may have given head before but never received it. Neither of them had experimented with anal, and although this was something John still wasn't comfortable with, he supposed if they did try they'd both be discovering it together.

He lay there for a bit, thinking about ways Sherlock hadn't yet come, enjoying the low-level pleasant buzz of arousal, the promise of more later. After a while he ventured out of the hotel, taking his time, and found a kebab shop and returned to the hotel room with their food.

He opened the door and stopped. A woman stood by the window, her back to the room. She was tall with long curly brown hair and rather nice curves. John quickly double-checked the room number and then cleared his throat.

"Um. Hello?" he said.

The woman turned, she was lightly made up with dark red lipstick and she was attractive in a pleasant, non-threatening kind of way. She smiled.

"Hello John," she said in a throaty voice. "My name's Shirley." She held out her hand and crossed the room towards him.

And then John saw it. Saw, the eyes beneath the eye makeup, the lips beneath the lipstick, the cheekbones beneath the rouge, the lanky body beneath the blouse and skirt.

"Sherlock?"

Shirley's lips pursed just so, eyebrows arched.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked, voice still pitched in that peculiarly light breathy way.

John looked Sherlock up and down. The way the skirt clung to his hips, the hint of a bosom, stocking clad legs and ballet-flats, the femininity in his stance and his expression, the way the hair and makeup only enhanced that impression. John felt...very confused actually and a tiny bit conflicted. Just when he was getting comfortable with his newly expanded sexual identity.

He swallowed. "Um. Great. Really clever. This is a disguise?"

Sherlock's darkened eyelashes fluttered and he swept his gaze down over John and back. Then suddenly his expression and posture shifted and he was Sherlock, obviously Sherlock.

"Of course. We'll be posing as novice dancers, husband and wife, John and Shirley Wilson. You bought me dancing lessons for our fifteenth wedding anniversary and promised to come with me. You'll dance with the women, I'll dance with the men, ample opportunity to observe and ask questions."

"All right, yeah," said John, it was perfectly reasonable. A disguise. For a case. Not at all a new, unexpected element Sherlock was trying to introduce into their fledgling sexual relationship.

* * *

The moment Sherlock stepped out of the hotel room he was completely in character. His walk, his voice, his posture, his personality, all tailored to the role he was playing; an attractive but slightly mousy woman on a couples night out with her husband. His behaviour towards John was familiar, comfortable, but there was an edge of anticipation in Shirley's demeanour, as if the dance lessons were a breath of fresh air in an otherwise stagnant life.

Another couple was waiting at the elevator as they approached and John and Sherlock settled beside them to wait for the lift to arrive.

"Oh John, look at you," Sherlock said as Shirley, reaching over and brushing the front of John's jumper then smoothing his hair back over his ear. Shirley smiled. It was a loving, affectionate smile, it spoke of wifely resignation and years of familiarity. John's stomach dropped.

Shirley leaned close against John's ear.

"Stop staring at me, John," Sherlock's voice whispered in his ear. "We've got four blocks to get into character. Married. Couple's night out. Rekindling the romance."

Shirley stepped back, that same feminine smile of endless patience and fond amusement.

"Yes?" she asked lightly.

John swallowed. "Of course sweetheart. Anything you say."

Shirley laughed a throaty giggle. "John, hush."

It sounded very flirty. The other couple, a man and woman in their fifties gave them an amused glance.

John felt his ears heat.

By the time they reached the dance studio, Shirley Wilson was doing John's head in. Being in the army, at uni and playing a bit of rugby he'd had plenty of experience with blokes dressing up as birds for a laugh. As soon as the words 'fancy dress' were mentioned out would come the skirts and fake bosoms in the finest of English comedic tradition. Some of these blokes would invariably play at seducing their more masculinely dressed counterparts, rubbing their breasts in their faces or simulating sexual acts. This was completely different. Sherlock was completely in character, feminine, not some mocking parody of femininity. It was one thing to have a mate dressed as woman trying to grope you as an inappropriate joke, it was another to have the best mate you were probably in love with, and wanted to have more sex with, hold your hand with feminine daintiness and smile at you winsomely. It was certainly another thing to have said best mate slide his hand down your spine, rest it on the small of your back, cant his hip in towards yours and give a little giggle while smiling down at you. It was definitely another thing when there was a definite implication that there would be more sex later and it might involve this costume.

Sherlock, with his extremely accurate portrayal of a thirty-something woman on an evening out with a man she fancied, was not helping. There was nothing obvious about his performance, Sherlock's acting choices were subtle and brilliantly observed. It was Sherlock after all, and if anyone could observe and control his body so precisely in order to mimic that observation, it would be him. It was all too easy to play along. If John forgot the context for just a moment he could imagine he was on a date with a woman, someone like Mary or Sarah or Janeane. A normal, regular date, with the prospect of soft curves and warm kisses at the end of it.

He'd already started processing his new expanded sexual identity, was just getting used to the concept of fancying Sherlock despite his undeniable masculinity, and now, it was as if he was presented with the female option. It felt like he being somehow disloyal. He didn't know if he was attracted to the idea of Sherlock playing around with gender roles, or the female version of Sherlock, or the character Sherlock was playing, or if he even should find this persona attractive.

As they went up the stairs of the dance studio John reminded himself it was just an act, just a disguise. For a case.

The owner met them at the door, recognising John. Sherlock leaned forward and whispered in his ear and the owner pulled back, startled and then nodding quickly. He directed them into the studio for the lesson.

There was a mix of ages in the ballroom dancing class but most of the students were over thirty, many sporting plenty of grey hair.

An octogenarian came over.

"Hello," he said. "I'm Lionel. That's Edith, my wife, over there." He indicated a little bird-like old lady, chatting to another spry but elderly woman. "Look at you two, the long and short of it!" He laughed, clearly pleased with his own joke. "Lovely to see some new faces." He took Shirley's hand. "What's your name, my dear?"

"Shirley Wilson and this is my husband, John." Shirley squeezed Lionel's hand before withdrawing her own. "So lovely to meet you. I'm so excited about tonight! John's been promising to take me ballroom dancing for years and he finally got me the lessons for our anniversary, the sweetheart." She linked her arm through John's and pulled him close.

"Good man," said Lionel, patting John on the shoulder before wandering off.

They stood watching the various couples and despite the look of pleased anticipation on Shirley's face, John knew Sherlock would be deducing each one. The owner suspected that the dance instructor was behind two recent after-hours break ins. To be honest, John was surprised Sherlock had even considered the case, but given recent events he was beginning to suspect it might just have been an excuse for a mini-break, to get John out of the flat, an excuse to spend a night together and see what happened.

He felt a light touch on his back, just above his hip and he glanced up to find Shirley looking down at him, for an instant her expression shifted and John saw Sherlock there, the slightest hint of a smirk quirking up the corner of his mouth.

"Any luck?" John asked, leaning in and keeping his voice low.

Sherlock bent his head to John's ear, his breath warm and the press along John's side rather pleasant. "I've already solved the case but I knew this would be interesting. There's something else. I'll tell you about it afterwards."

"Do you want to go now then?" John asked.

He felt Sherlock's lips curl against his ear. "And miss waltzing with you? Hardly. Besides I need to dance with Mister Cat-owning-knee-surgery over there."

John looked over where Sherlock was pointing. A balding forty-something man stood talking to a couple of older ladies, his trousers pulled up too high, wearing a denim jacket lovingly kept from the early nineties and a comb-over. He simpered to the women and they both smiled the smiles of the polite.

"Have fun with that," said John. "He looks like an arse grabber to me."

Shirley straightened and looked at John with a raised eyebrow. "Oh John!" she cried. "Don't be jealous. I'm sure he's perfectly nice."

John huffed. Jealous? Hardly. Although the idea of anyone other than him grabbing Sherlock's arse was completely wrong. John leaned in close to her ear. "I'm going to do something perfectly nice to you when we get back to the hotel," he murmured, surprising himself, unsure if he was in character or not.

If Sherlock's disguise slipped for a moment, it was only a moment and then Shirley laughed her throaty laugh. "Oh John! You're terrible!" she cried, and then pinched him on the bum.

The dancing lesson went as well as could be expected, in that John knew he was right to have never really wanted to learn how to do it properly. He muddled along, trying not to embarrass himself too much and thought he'd made a reasonable fist of it. Sherlock on the other hand, or maybe it was just Shirley, was a graceful natural. As they took their places and were instructed on how to hold their partners John found himself forgetting that Shirley wasn't really a lithe female dance partner. His hand on the small of her back, her body pressed sinuously against his, skirt fluttering about his legs, long dark hair brushing against his cheek, all contributed to his confusion. As they started dancing, Shirley swirled beside him, her smile fun and enthusiastic and her laugh curling down John's spine in a way that he was happy to just enjoy.

When it came time to move on to their next partners, John chatted with each woman amiably and tried to be attentive but his attention kept straying to Sherlock, spinning around as Shirley with whichever man she was dancing with, laughing and smiling gaily.

It did bad possessive things to John's insides and he was itching to get back to the hotel room, to give Sherlock a proper snogging and get at the man underneath that blouse and skirt.

Finally the hour long class was done and John had sore feet and was feeling increasingly aggravated with every other male in the room.

Shirley floated over to him.

"Darling, wasn't that fun!" she exclaimed. "Come on, let's see dear Mr Werner before we go!" She led the way to where the owner, Werner was waiting anxiously by the door. Shirley clasped his hands and leaned in, ostensibly giving him a peck on the cheek but stayed far too long, murmuring to him in a low voice. He blanched at whatever she whispered in his ear but nodded. Werner shook John's hand.

"Thank you, both of you," he said.

"Think nothing of it," cooed Shirley and then her voice dropped. "John here will be in touch

with our payment details. Goodnight."

* * *

They collected their coats and stepped out into the street and started back to the hotel. It was dark now, and colder and Shirley slipped her arm through John's leaning into him as they walked.

"I take it that it was the dance instructor doing the break ins?"

"Of course sweetie. Child's play," replied Sherlock, still in character.

John swallowed, was Sherlock going to drop the act soon, or were they really going to take it home to bed with them? Were they going home to bed? John certainly hoped so.

"So um, you found out what you needed to about Mr Cat-and-knee-surgery?" he asked, trying to stick to business.

The Shirley persona slipped for a moment. "Yes, he's a dealer for a smuggling operation. He launders money through the dance instructor in exchange for a sample of the goods. There's a shipment coming in tomorrow morning, four am. We'll go down to the docks and have a look around later. There's plenty of time though so we might as well go back to the room and get some sleep."

John glanced at Sherlock. "Just sleep huh?"

Sherlock glanced at John in return. It was a speculative glance. And then Shirley was back.

"John! You're terrible! Well. We'll see." And she leaned in and licked John's earlobe before quickening their pace.

It was a confusing walk back to the hotel room for John, torn between the curious things the thought of Sherlock wearing a dress was doing to his libido, and discomfort about why Sherlock wearing a dress was doing curious things to his libido.

Sherlock, or Shirley, answered the question of what was going to happen when they reached the hotel, pushing John up against the glass panels of the lift once the doors had slid shut and kissing him soundly. John groaned against the onslaught, senses confused. With his eyes closed that delicious mouth was most definitely Sherlock's but there was something about the feel of a billowy blouse and the runch of a skirt lifting up that pulled John's mind firmly back to previous female partners. Combined with a noticeable hardness pressing into his hip, John was torn between arousal and an adolescent urge to make a crack about the Crying Game.

The lift doors opened with a ping and they stumbled out and up the hallway to the door of their room.

Shirley leaned into him, hand on his arse, mouthing at his throat as he fumbled with the swipe card to their room. Eventually it clicked and he turned the door handle and they tumbled inside. John pushed the door shut behind them and Shirley pushed him up against the door, kissing him hard. John groaned and his hand slid up her leg, pushing up under her skirt. The slippery silky feel of her stockings met his fingertips and he slid his hand upwards until silky turned to the lacey tops of her stockings and then to the soft smoothness of her thigh.

His hand moved upwards and John's brain melted. He pulled back, gasping.

"Oh my God, you're wearing knickers," he breathed and caught Sherlock's mouth again, sliding his hand greedily over his satiny, lacey, silky covered arse.

Sherlock drew his lips along John's jaw just his hand pushed up under the back of John's shirt. John was hard and when Sherlock nibbled his earlobe he bucked forward against Sherlock's stocking covered thigh.

"I want to suck your cock until you come down my throat," Shirley breathed against his ear. "Would you like that?"

John whimpered. "Yes please. God yeah."

And she slid down gracefully onto her knees and reached for John's belt.

John groaned and stared down at the top of Shirley's head, the long hair, the nimble fingers tugging open his belt, flicking open the button on his jeans. Shirley looked up and smiled, something flirtatious and wicked in her expression. John groaned as she reached into his pants and freed his cock, so hard now. Her touch was light. Her lips shone red, unsmudged, Sherlock must have gotten that special lipstick John thought absently, and she batted her long mascara coated eyelashes as she held him in her hand. She licked her dark lips in anticipation, her head tilted to one side to stop her long hair falling in the way. John bit back another groan. She looked so much like so many other similar encounters that John could almost forget who this really was, who was really going to be sucking his cock.

"Stop," he gasped. "Sherlock, stop."

Sherlock, not Shirley, looked up, a frown creasing his brow and his nose crinkled slightly. He blinked.

"Problem?" his voice wavered between light and deep.

"I want it to be you," he said reaching down, gliding his thumb over the rouge on Sherlock's right cheek. "If we're going to do this. I want it to be you."

"Yes," Sherlock breathed.

John exhaled, he reached for the wig and gently eased it off. He ruffled his hands through Sherlock's hair, fluffing out his natural curls. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes were still made up and his mouth was still red but something had changed in his appearance. Shirley had been put away and he was himself again.

John cupped Sherlock's face in his hand. "Christ, you're beautiful," he breathed. "Just you. I don't want anyone else."

Sherlock swallowed, his eyes searched John's face, his expression caught. "I thought it would be easier for you," he said, his voice rough, and sounding so wonderfully deep after Shirley's lighter timbre. "To be able to pretend."

John shook his head, his throat suddenly tight. "No, you idiot. No, nope. I don't need you to be a girl for me. Just you. Please."

And Sherlock wet his lips and slid his hand up and down John's shaft once before lowering his mouth to John's erection. John watched transfixed as his cock slowly slid into Sherlock's mouth, dark-red insolent lips stretched around him, taking him into wonderful warm, wet sensation. He groaned as Sherlock pulled back along his shaft with a delicious suction, eyes dark and intense and fixed on his in a challenge given and accepted. A shot of desire sang through John's middle and it was all he could do not to thrust into his welcoming mouth.

It was a fucking fantastic blow job. Whatever Sherlock had learned from his brief experience he applied it with skill. John's knees almost buckled as Sherlock took him in deep and swirled his tongue, sucking and caressing and stroking in equal parts. John's hand stayed on the side of his face, stroking his cheek as he whispered endearments and encouragement, sliding into Sherlock's soft curls and back again in time with each slide into warm wetness.

Belatedly John thought of a condom but threw caution to the wind, trusting Sherlock in this as in everything. He could feel his orgasm building, the tight, furled feeling in his groin spreading across his belly and thighs, his balls tight, aching, drawing up, everything centred on the wonderful feeling of the warmth, suction and delicious friction of Sherlock's mouth on his prick. Sherlock cupped his balls, rolling them gently and John swore.

"Fuck you're good at this, so fucking good. You're brilliant, absolutely, fuck," he gasped in a litany of praise and encouragement as the pleasure ran up his spine and curled around his hip bones and jolted straight back into his cock. Sherlock's eyes were locked on his and the corners of his eyes crinkled as if in a smile.

John gasped. "Gorgeous, oh fuck you're gorgeous. Please Sherlock, so close-"

Sherlock moved quicker, bobbing his head on John's prick, letting him go so deep that John could feel the back of his throat with each thrust. Sherlock groaned about him and John shuddered.

"Going- now Sherlock, going to-"

Sherlock slid forward and held and John pulsed long and agonisingly hard into his mouth, wave after wave of pleasure thudding through him as he gasped and swore. Too soon the orgasm was over and John's tremors stilled. Sherlock pulled off with a pop, sucking the last drop from his now sensitive prick eliciting an undignified squeak from John. He sank to his knees, pulling Sherlock to him, kissing him deeply, kissing away his own taste. He reached for Sherlock's crotch and groaned as he felt how hard he was, achingly hard. Sherlock whimpered against his mouth and John pushed him back, pushed him onto the floor.

John knelt between long stocking-clad legs, thighs splayed open, Sherlock's skirt hitched up around his waist and his cock stretching the frilly knickers obscenely. It made John's breath catch, so fucking debauched. He tugged the lacy bit of nothing down, and slid his hands up and under Sherlock's arse, cupping his hips. It was a familiar position and despite knowing this was Sherlock, despite the achingly hard prick flat back against Sherlock's stomach, John felt in familiar territory. He cupped Sherlock's hips and bent his mouth to nuzzle at his groin, licking at his balls, feeling the wrinkled texture, the thick wiry curls, the smooth skin of the perineum beneath and at the juncture of thigh and groin. Sherlock trembled under him, his thigh muscles tensed tight and fists clutching at the fabric of his skirt.

John took a experimental swipe at the shaft of his penis. The sound that came from Sherlock's mouth was so beautifully strangled that John took another. He mouthed up the shaft and then licked around the edge of the foreskin, taut against the swollen head of Sherlock's cock and then tentatively tasted the tangy bead of precome that had formed on the tip.

"John, please," whimpered Sherlock and John took pity on him. He let go of Sherlock's hips and closed his palm around the base of Sherlock's cock, stroking gently as he took the head of Sherlock's prick into his mouth. Carefully he moved down the shaft, taking him in further, a thick, solid presence on his tongue, inside his mouth, trying not to scrape with teeth. Sherlock groaned and his thighs pressed against John's shoulder, shaking with the effort not to thrust.

John cupped Sherlock's balls with his other hand, rolling them gently, lifting and pressing them against his body as he moved up and down Sherlock's shaft. Sherlock was making small, gasping, desperate noises, interspersed with John's name and it was a wondrous sound, to hear Sherlock, the brilliant, controlled genius so undone by his hands, his mouth.

John looked up and he met Sherlock's eyes, glittering, nearly completely dark, focused entirely on him. He let go of Sherlock's balls and reached up to close his hand over Sherlock's left hand and Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed and he threw his head back, back arching.

"John!" he gasped. "I'm-" And then John felt the warm salty spurt in his mouth and he swallowed reflexively as Sherlock shook and shuddered into him, his thighs clamping tight against John, his name falling from Sherlock's lips like a prayer. Carefully John let Sherlock's cock drop from his mouth and he wiped at his face before crawling up the long, lean body to take a kiss. Sherlock looked up at him, bleary eyed, face flushed.

"John," he breathed. "That was spectacular."

John grinned. "I'm sure it wasn't but I think I could do that again, if you'd like me to practice."

Sherlock huffed a laugh and shut his eyes. "I'm- oh, here," Sherlock tugged him down and John collapsed next to him on the carpeted floor.

"You have a very nice penis," Sherlock muttered before he fell asleep.


	15. In a different clothing style

**Warnings:** sex.

**Day 15: In a different clothing style.**

John must have drifted off as well, lying there on the floor, cheek pillowed on Sherlock's shoulder, because a loud snore awoke him. His eyes shot open and he blinked, head fuzzy and heard another nazally drone from beside his ear.

_Oh God, mine _is_ a snorer,_ he thought.

Lifting his head, he wiped at his mouth and the drool he'd left on Sherlock's chest and with the kind of groan that comes from sleeping on the floor, sat up stiffly. Sherlock was a picture of debauchery; eyes dark with smudged makeup, lips still reddened, skirt up about his navel, bare from the waist to his stockings which were riding down, and a pair of women's knickers about one ankle. His penis lay flaccid and John _might_ have taken a moment to study it at rest. He gave Sherlock's shoulder a thwap.

"Come on, can't sleep here," he muttered, staggering to his feet and tugging at Sherlock's arm. Sherlock cracked his eyes open, groaned and then with unintelligible grumbling got up and padded obediently after him to the bed, where he collapsed, losing his knickers along the way.

"What time 's it?" he mumbled, face already in the pillow.

John chastely pulled down Sherlock's skirt, covering his bare arse and then checked the time. "Five past ten," he said.

Sherlock grunted. "Set the alarm for three."

John rubbed at his eyes, really wanting to just curl up beside Sherlock then and there, and set his phone alarm. He went to relieve himself, since he was awake, and then flicked off the lights and crawled into bed again. There was a snuffle and a long arm draped over his chest.

John smiled to himself and went back to sleep.

* * *

"John! Wake up!"

John's eyes opened with a start. Sherlock was shaking him.

"What time is it?"

"2:59, get dressed, come on."

John sat up with a yawn and watched as Sherlock rolled out of bed all sinuous movements. His alarm started to go off and he fumbled for his phone just as Sherlock pulled Shirley Wilson's blouse off over his head.

John swallowed. Under the blouse Sherlock was wearing lingerie. Proper, lacey, panelly, satiny, beribboned, black and red, lingerie. To go with the knickers that were lying on the floor. The lacey, beribboned, satin-panelled thing had a padded bust giving the appearance of a slight bosom, the fitted bodice cinching in his waist slightly to give the impression of curves.

Sherlock looked up and caught John staring.

John cleared his throat. "Bloody hell, um, that- you look- that's pretty hot."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smiled and his eyes flickered. "I'll keep it then, shall I?"

"If you like, yeah. Um. If you like. Yeah."

Sherlock snorted but then unzipped the skirt and let it fall to the floor, standing there in nothing but lace trimmed stockings and the fancy bodice. His cock hung thick and flushed between his bare thighs. His eyes were dark from the makeup he'd worn earlier and it gave him an exotic look, making him look even more erotic. He smirked.

John sucked in a breath. "How long have we got?"

Sherlock let his gaze run down John's body.

"Not long enough," Sherlock said with an audible sigh. He turned on his heel and, scooping up a bundle of clothing, disappeared into the bathroom, giving John a very good view of one very fine arse.

John got out of bed, adjusting his trousers. He had just pulled on his shoes when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. His face was scrubbed clean and he was not in his usual suit but instead was wearing dark denim jeans and a black hoodie.

John raised his eyebrows. Sherlock bent over the shopping bags from his trip out earlier and tossed a similar black hoodie at him. John looked at it with raised eyebrows.

"Put that on, you'll be less conspicuous," Sherlock said.

John looked up at him. With the jeans and the hoodie Sherlock looked younger, different, and John suddenly had an image of him, like this, disappearing among the crowds as he hunted Moriarty's network.

He cleared his throat and pulled on the hoodie.

Sherlock flicked up his hood and tucked his hands in the front pockets of the jumper. "Let's go."

* * *

Later, just as the sky was starting to pale with predawn light, and John and Sherlock had already found the smuggler's boat and initiated a very messy, very noisy police raid, they'd done a runner before they could be dragged into any boring paperwork.

They came to a halt several blocks away, in an alley behind the back of a restaurant, Sherlock clutching his injured side and leaning against the wall to catch his breath.

"You okay?" John gasped, equally out of breath but sans broken ribs.

Sherlock nodded, leaning his head back against the wall and sucking in a breath.

John collapsed against the wall as well. His blood sang, it was exactly like he'd remembered it; utterly brilliant, Sherlock's incandescent genius coupled with danger and the thrill of the chase. His veins hummed with adrenalin and a sharp, fierce joy. He rolled his head to the side and met Sherlock's eye and they both grinned and suddenly John felt he was going to break with the sheer weight of feeling on his chest. The smile slipped from his face. This. This moment. The kissing, the sex, even the sitting at home at Baker Street, was nothing compared to this moment. This was what he could never give up, this was why he walked away from Mary, this was why he was crushed and ruined for so long after Sherlock fell from Barts. To be at Sherlock's side, to witness his mind, to share in his triumph, to dash across the streets and end, like this, laughing and breathless.

And so very, stupidly, ridiculously in love.

Sherlock was watching him, his smile too had vanished, and John closed the distance between them, pushing him back against the wall, claiming his mouth with his own. Finally he could give into this urgent, desperate feeling he'd always ignored before, always pushed down and repressed. He crushed Sherlock up against the wall, hands fisted in his clothing, lips bruising against his.

"You're amazing," he gasped drawing back. "Brilliant." He took another, panted kiss.

"John-" gasped Sherlock.

"Fantastic. God. You -"

Sherlock caught him on the next kiss, capturing his face in both hands and claiming his mouth with a fierce determination. John canted his hips against Sherlock's and felt a tell-tale bulge in Sherlock's tight jeans. He slid his hands down over Sherlock's denim-clad arse and then gripped Sherlock's hips and adjusted, lining them up, crotch to crotch. They rutted against the wall, tempting friction and urgent kisses driving them on. Sherlock made a small keening sound and John groaned at the noise, drawing his lips away to Sherlock's throat as he reached down and cupped Sherlock's hard-on through his jeans.

"Please," Sherlock whispered. "John- Oh God-"

John cast a surreptitious look around. The alleyway was concealed slightly from the main thoroughfare, a dirty skip between them and the other end of the alley, it was still dark but the sky was slowly turning a dull grey. If anyone happened to walk past they'd see them. A thrill shot through John at the risk, feeding into the adrenalin already buzzing through his veins.

"Could be seen," he breathed against Sherlock's throat.

He felt Sherlock swallow. "Yes," he gritted out, voice rough. "Definitely risky."

"Fuck, yes," John said and reached for Sherlock's fly. He undid Sherlock's jeans and eased him out, leaning up for another kiss as he started to stroke. Sherlock pressed his forehead to John's, leaning against the wall for support and clutching his shoulders, ragged breaths against John's lips.

"So gorgeous," murmured John. "So fucking brilliant." Aware of their surroundings, the need to be quick, he set a rapid pace, wanking Sherlock fast and dirty.

"_John-_"

He could feel Sherlock tensing, starting to shake against him, he cupped Sherlock's testicles with his other hand, felt them tight and pulled up against his body - close.

"Yes, that's it, come for me, Sherlock," he murmured. "Come for me. God you're beautiful-"

"Mmph," whimpered Sherlock, biting his lip for a moment before giving a strangled cry and thrusting with rhythmic jerks into John's hand as he came between them, spilling onto the dirty ground of the alley. John took a kiss before Sherlock pulled away and pressed his face into John's shoulder for a moment, panting. John held him close with his clean hand as he caught his own breath. He tucked his sticky hand into the front pocket of his hoodie for want of something better and wiped it clean there.

Sherlock looked up after a moment and leaned in to kiss John again, hand falling to the front of John's jeans.

"Oh!" John said reaching down to stop him. He'd already come twice in less than twenty-four hours, if he was going to get off again it was going to take too long for a lane-way quickie. "No, no, it's okay. Maybe later." He suddenly remembered Sherlock's history, and it seemed appropriate that Sherlock was the only one to get an orgasm this time.

Sherlock straightened, blinking at him, face wonderfully flushed from his recent orgasm, lips pink from their snogging. His gaze flickered over John's face and something flashed across his expression for a moment but was gone again before John could read it.

"Of course," he said, his hand dropping away. He tucked himself away, doing up his jeans.

"Sherlock?" John asked, reaching for him.

Sherlock dropped a quick kiss on his lips. "Come on John, we need to get out of here." And with that he was off, heading up towards the street.


	16. During their morning ritual(s)

**Day 16: During their morning ritual(s)**

Sherlock and John returned to the hotel room as the day was starting. Sherlock immediately started packing up his bag and John followed suit. Sherlock didn't seem about to extend his offer from the alley again anytime soon, so John didn't make any overtures either. As much as he was still feeling a bit randy (just thinking about Sherlock's face as he came...bloody hell), he had just gotten off rather spectacularly twice already and he could wait.

They grabbed a quick breakfast then caught the train back to London. John fell asleep for most of the journey and only awoke when they were back in London proper. Sherlock was awake but had his hands steepled under his nose, deep in thought. His eyes flickered towards John when he sat up, blinking.

"You're going to the clinic tomorrow," Sherlock said.

John scrunched up his eyes. "Uh yeah," he said, brain kicking into gear. "I'm rostered on."

Sherlock said nothing else but when they stepped out of Baker Street Station, he handed John his bag. "I'm going to Barts, you go on without me," he said.

John took his bag, ignoring the feeling of disappointment. He _might_ have had thoughts that _may_ have regarded following up on that hand job Sherlock had offered once they were back at the flat.

"Oh. Okay. Anything I can do?"

"No," said Sherlock. "Don't wait up." He stepped towards the edge of the footpath and raised his hand for a cab.

John stared after him. Right. The romantic weekend was obviously over.

"And don't you bring home any body parts," he called after Sherlock.

Walking into their flat, alone, Sherlock off bothering Molly at Barts, was a bit like being doused with a bucket of cold water. The mad, vibrant heat that had bloomed between them during their short stay in Brighton seemed a little unreal now that he was back home in their flat. John dropped their bags in the kitchen.

He put the kettle on and looked around the flat, so quiet without Sherlock's larger than life presence. John shook himself, it would be good to have a bit of peace, give him a chance to get his head together, process this new development.

He huffed out a breath and shook his head in bemusement. He'd got off with Sherlock, twice. They were having sex. It was only two days ago that they'd kissed for the first time. Barely over a week since Sherlock had confessed his feelings, since John had made his choice to give up on trying to have any relationship other than this one. Now somehow they'd had three sexual encounters and John was looking forward to more.

John made his tea and sat down. He looked around the flat. He thought about Sherlock in the alley, about the urgent need that he'd finally been able to act upon. Suddenly it all seemed inevitable, this had been coming for a long time, maybe since the beginning.

It would work, it had to. He'd already decided that being without Sherlock was not an option.

* * *

Sherlock still wasn't home by the time John went to bed. When he got up the next morning however Sherlock's bedroom door was shut. When John came out of the bathroom, Sherlock had emerged, tousle-haired, bundled in his dressing gown and yawning. He put the kettle on and sat tiredly at the table waiting for John to make his breakfast.

John smiled to himself. Nope nothing had changed.

John made tea and toast and eggs and put a plate in front of Sherlock, a sudden surge of affection making him drop a kiss on the unruly mess of curls before taking his own seat. Sherlock glanced up, a small frown crinkling his brow, and then focused on his breakfast.

"Have fun at Barts?" John asked.

Sherlock made an affirmative noise.

John picked up the newspaper from Saturday that he hadn't had a chance to read, and started eating his breakfast.

"What time did you get in last night? I didn't hear you."

"Three," rumbled Sherlock, his voice rough from sleep.

"What are you up to today?" John asked around toast and tea and paper.

Sherlock made a noise that might have been exasperation at being made to converse at this hour of the morning. "Experiment. Barts."

John studied his toast, considering the new parameters of their relationship, his new boundaries. _I'm all yours_, he'd said to Sherlock on Friday. How firmly was he going to stick to the promise he'd made to have a life separate from Sherlock? He'd already given up on having a separate relationship. What about his job? Part of him balked at giving everything over to Sherlock, sex and new relationship or not, but on the other hand, one of the reasons he'd left Mary was so he could be available to Sherlock if he needed him.

"All right. Just- I know I said when I was at work I was off limits, but if you need back up or help or if you get yourself hurt, call me all right?" He looked over the top of the newspaper at Sherlock but the other man only made a non-committal noise and frowned into his tea.  
John swallowed the last bite of toast and washed it down with the last of his tea. He put his plate in the sink and then grabbed his coat, wallet, keys and work bag.

"I'm off then," he said, hand on the door. "See you tonight?"

Sherlock was fiddling with his mobile and didn't even glance up. "Probably not. Experiment - time dependent."

John hesitated a moment, wondering if some sort of affectionate goodbye was called for, then decided to err on the side of normality. Right. He nodded once, then opened the door and left for work.


	17. Spooning

**Warnings:** sex.

**Day 17: Spooning**

Sherlock didn't text John at work that day, nor was he at home when John got back to the flat. John puttered around a bit, then tried to distract himself with some telly and his blog. It was too quiet without Sherlock. John missed the companionship, the closeness of the weekend. By ten o'clock, Sherlock still wasn't back, and John decided he should just go to bed. He sent a quick text.

_All fine?_

A reply came just as he finished cleaning his teeth.

_Yes. SH_

At least Sherlock wasn't bleeding in some alley somewhere. He tried to ignore the disapointment at how the week was progressing after such a promising start on the weekend. After all this was Sherlock, he was behaving pretty much the way he always did. The work always came first and John reminded himself not to expect anything else. The last thing he wanted was for Sherlock to find him too demanding, find a relationship too much trouble and cry off.

Sherlock was sitting at the table the next morning when John came downstairs. John's heart ridiculously skipped a beat at the sight of him. He was in his pyjamas and dressing gown and looking sleepy and tousled so must have gone to bed at some stage.

"Good morning," John said, squeezing his shoulder as he went past, feeling stupidly pleased to see him. A mug of tea was already sitting at his place at the table. "Cheers for that," he said as he picked up the tea and took a sip before going to make toast.

Sherlock was fiddling with his phone and didn't look up.

"Plans for today?" John asked.

"Cold case for Lestrade," said Sherlock, glaring at his phone.

"Oh right. Well, you know where I am if you need me."

"Why would I need you?" said Sherlock absently.

John pursed his lips and studied his toast, trying not to take offence.

Sherlock must have noticed his silence or his expression. "It's files and paperwork, John, I'm hardly going to need back up."

"No, of course." He glanced up and saw Sherlock watching him. He gave a smile - he didn't want Sherlock to think he was offended by his offhand comment.

Sherlock, apparently satisfied, returned to his phone. John finished his breakfast and took his leave. Sherlock muttered something that he might be able to construe as a farewell, in a very loose sense of the word.

John checked his phone regularly during the day but there were no texts from Sherlock. He should have been glad. Sherlock was occupying himself and leaving John to get on with his day job. Everything was completely normal. Although, maybe it would be nice if things weren't _completely_ back to the way they'd been before the weekend. A snog now and then would be nice and John wouldn't mind if some more sex was on offer. He shouldn't read too much into it, Sherlock had been celibate for nearly his entire life, three shags in the space of one weekend might be enough for a while. It wasn't as if he expected Sherlock to be getting all cuddly, or touchy-feely, or whispering sweet nothings as they passed in the hall.

Still there was the uncomfortable sense that perhaps Sherlock was avoiding him. _Was_ he avoiding John? Was he worried John was going to start making demands on his time, his person? Get too clingy? Too physical? Too emotional?

John sighed.

Of course it was going to be tricky, working out the parameters of a new relationship given that they were living together - and in a way taking it slowly was good. John wasn't sure he was ready to move into Sherlock's room just yet. They'd just have to talk about it.

All the same, that evening, when Sherlock came home and threw himself into his armchair, complaining about police incompetence, John balked at the thought of talking about feelings let alone initiating sexual activity. Sherlock seemed closed-off and aloof, preoccupied with whatever case he'd been working on. John didn't think his ego could take an ascerbic rejection if Sherlock rebuffed his advances. Better to just wait until it happened naturally, one of those heated moments when they were high on danger and John found himself caught in Sherlock's gaze-

John cleared his throat and focused on the paperback he was supposedly reading. He didn't _have_ to have sex with Sherlock. It was hard enough getting him to eat, if John had to nag Sherlock for sex too then he didn't want it.

Sherlock picked up his violin and started to play, seemingly oblivious to John's presence entirely, and after a while John took himself up to bed, the melodic strains wafting up to his room. He took himself in hand, listening to the music coming from the floor below, thoughts of that elegant body, bending to draw out the notes.

The next morning Sherlock was still in bed by the time John left for work. He was however home when John got back from the clinic, pacing the floor and glaring at some newspaper clippings he'd pinned to the wall.

"Case?" John asked, a buzz of anticipation running through him.

"Cold. Frustrating," said Sherlock still focused on the clippings. "Complete lack of any useful evidence."

"Can't solve it then?" John asked dryly, trying not to grin.

"I didn't say that- it's just going to take a little longer."

John made some tea and ordered some takeaway. He put a mug of tea next to Sherlock and looked at the clippings. A spate of missing women.

"They never found their bodies?" John asked. He could feel the excitement of a new case, the fascination growing of watching Sherlock work.

"No."

"Go on then, talk me through it."

Sherlock glanced at him and then his face lit up and he began explaining everything the police knew and what he'd deduced on top of what the police knew. John let him talk, enjoying the sight of Sherlock's massive intellect on display.

"It's the green van that's bothering me-" Sherlock said finally. "I can't -" Sherlock's eyes unfocused and then John could literally see the spark of inspiration as his genius erupted. "John! That's it!" He spun around and gripped John by the shoulders, planting a kiss squarely on his mouth, and then was heading for the door, grabbing his coat and scarf. "Don't wait up- just need to test a hypothesis-"

"Wait - do you want some help?"

Sherlock hesitated for a moment but then his expression closed off. "No. It will be a late night. You have work tomorrow." And with that he was out the door.  
John stared after him for a long moment, since when did Sherlock care about him having to work in the morning? He sat down on the sofa. He picked up his phone and opened a blank text message. Surely Sherlock would just be at Barts, though, testing some theory, John would just get irritated and bored hanging around watching him work, ignored at best, insulted at worst.

_Don't you dare go off and investigate this without me._ He tapped out finally, and hit send.

A reply came almost instantly.

_Wouldn't dream of it. Will text. - SH_

Sherlock still wasn't home when John got up the next morning. Mrs Hudson tapped on the door just as John was eating breakfast.

"Yoo hoo," she said. "Look who's in the papers this morning! He's such a clever boy."

John frowned and took the paper from her. There on the front page was the headline.

_Alive! Missing for 22 years. _  
_Four women saved from house of horrors by super sleuth Sherlock Holmes._

And underneath there was a photo of Lestrade and two other police officers herding a small group of figures wrapped in blankets into an ambulance, and there on the periphery, unmistakable with his height, his coat, his hair, Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Just then the door slammed downstairs and there was a pounding of feet up the stairs. The man himself appeared in the doorway. He looked cold, his cheeks flushed and his nose reddened, but his eyes were sparkling and bright.

John's heart sank.

"You fucking solved it already," he said flatly.

Sherlock had the good grace to look abashed, if falling short of guilty. "It was late, John, the women were still alive, there was no time to lose."

John had to admit this was true. Still, he felt resentful and left out.

Mrs Hudson, looking back and forth between them, must have decided John's reaction was particularly poor. "Oh Sherlock!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "Well done dear!"

He huffed and smiled slightly, but his eyes flickered back towards John.

John exhaled. He was being petty and stupid, of course Sherlock had done the right thing. He plastered on a smile. "Yeah, well done. Good work."

Sherlock's jaw twitched and he studied John for a moment longer before looking away. "Mrs Hudson, I'm starving," he said. "Any chance of some breakfast."

"Of course dear. Now you sit here, I'll nip downstairs and be right up."

John knew he had no right to be, but he still felt out of sorts. He should be the one praising Sherlock and giving him congratulatory breakfasts. Sherlock's look of pleasure at Mrs Hudson's praise should have been his by rights. He should have been there at the crime scene, admiring Sherlock's brilliance. Perhaps afterwards, the two of them, high on adrenalin, slipping off together-

He would have gone with Sherlock, _should_ have gone with him. Sherlock hadn't wanted him.

"Right, well, I'm off to work," he muttered.

"John?"

John took a breath, knowing he was behaving badly. "You home tonight? We could go to dinner, celebrate." He glanced at Sherlock.

Sherlock's gaze flickered over John's features before he answered. "Yes, I would like that," he said quietly.

John nodded and left for work before he could be any more of an arse.

* * *

Dinner had gone well. After so many days of Sherlock's absence or preoccupation, it was nice to have his attention again. He focused on John, told him anecdotes, entertained him with random inappropriate deductions and comments and was duly amused by John's attempts to amuse him. As John teased him about dessert he realised with a start that he was actually flirting with Sherlock. As Sherlock stole a spoonful of his panna cotta with a playful smirk, he realised Sherlock was flirting right back. Which was good, very good.

John felt a low level hum of anticipation as they walked back to the flat. Sherlock's deep voice rumbling next to him with idle conversation. John opened the door downstairs and, very aware of Sherlock right behind him, started up the stairs.

Once inside the flat, John could feel the tension thrumming between them as they hung up their respective coats. He smoothed his palms down over the front of his jumper and turned towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was watching him, a look of expectation on his face, and John's insides tingled. He looked at Sherlock and Sherlock looked at him and-

And then Sherlock's gaze skittered away and his hands fidgeted in agitation before he turned on his heel and flounced off into the living room. He threw himself into his armchair, apparently in a huff.

John stared after him, feeling quite a bit like he'd been punched in the gut.

It was all suddenly, painfully clear. Sherlock _had_ been avoiding him, _had_ excluded him from the case, because Sherlock didn't want to have sex anymore and he didn't want to deal with John troublesome desires. All the supposed flirting, the look just now, John had read it all wrong. They'd tried and it hadn't worked and John had been too stupid to take the hint and Sherlock had decided to avoid him rather than tell him to stop. And now he was annoyed because John had been expecting _something_.

John sighed. There was nothing for it, they'd have to talk about it.

He went and sat on the sofa, feeling uncomfortable and awkward. He rubbed at his thighs, working out what to say.

Sherlock gave a deep, irritated sigh and it spurred John onwards.

"Sherlock," he began, because that was a good place to start and he hoped the rest of the words would just line up and follow. "Listen, I- look we tried, it didn't work. It's- You're still my best friend, you're still the most important person in my life. You always will be. So. I- Let's just go back to being friends."

Sherlock raised his head, expression stark. He turned his head away, jaw clenched. "Spare me, John."

John swallowed, more sure now than ever that he needed to sort this out. "Sherlock, I just- you don't have to avoid me, I'm not going to make a pass at you if it makes you feel uncomfortable. We tried, it didn't work out. I admit that I'm a bit disappointed but, we don't have to have sex. It's fine, it..." He trailed off as Sherlock jerked around to stare at him.

"You're disappointed?"

"Well. Yeah. It was great, really great, um, I liked it. I didn't know if I would, but I did, but that's beside the point-"

Sherlock sat forward. "No. Not beside the point, that _is_ the point - " Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation. "Oh!"

John frowned. "What?"

"You still want to have sex."

John flushed. "Well yes, I do, but not if it's making you uncomfortable-"

"Do shut up, John." Sherlock shook his head in irritation. "You still want to have sex? Yes? And you thought I didn't want to have sex? Yes?"

"Um...you do?"

"YES! I thought- Oh stupid! But why did you reject me in the alley? I thought-"

"You thought I didn't want to?" John blinked and reran the events of Sunday morning again. He'd thought he was being generous, that it was fitting to just do it for Sherlock, given his previous experience but Sherlock...Perhaps- "Did- You thought I felt like you did, when you were with those other men? Sherlock, I'd already come twice, it would have taken ages to get me off, I just- I said later."

"You said _maybe_ later." Sherlock turned over in his armchair, in a sulk.

John rubbed at his eyes. "Sherlock! I thought you had changed your mind. You've been bloody avoiding me all week!"

Sherlock jerked around again to glare at him. "I was waiting for you to make the first move. I..." He turned his face back into the back of his armchair and muttered something John couldn't quite hear but it sounded an awful lot like, "didn't want to appear needy."

"_Sherlock_."

John exhaled. Ridiculous. They were both being bloody ridiculous. In a moment he was on his feet, crossing the distance between them, leaning over Sherlock and turning his face towards him.

"Sherlock," John said. Sherlock's gaze flickered up to his and John crushed their mouths together.

Sherlock's hands came up instantly to fist in John's jumper, dragging him closer. John pulled back, gripping Sherlock's upper arms and hauling him up.

"Bed," he said firmly.

Sherlock caught his mouth and walked him backwards towards the bedroom kissing, tugging up his jumper and shirt, his long hands finally settling on his waist.

John pulled away. "We're both bloody ridiculous," he breathed and thrust Sherlock's jacket off his shoulders before catching his mouth again.

Sherlock drew back breathlessly after a moment. "You don't understand, John, I'm not used to wanting someone so much. I should be able to ignore this-" He slid his hands up and under John's shirt in agitation. "I thought if I stayed away from you- It's been difficult to think of anything else."

John kissed him again. "God, I've been wanting you all week."

Sherlock made a pained sound against his mouth and then pushed him towards the bedroom, tugging at his clothes.

They moved against one another on the bed, naked and urgent, limbs tangling and fingers clutching. John was lost in the feel of Sherlock's bare skin, his long lean form wrapped around him, his warm, inviting mouth moving against his. They shifted, slotting together, shoulder to thigh. The sensation of Sherlock's prick, hot and aroused and pressing against his own made John gasp and he hooked his calves around Sherlock, holding him close as they frotted against each other.

It didn't take very long, pent up as they were, their erections trapped between them and rubbing together with urgent, sweaty friction. Sherlock rose above John, kisses now nothing more than panted scrapes of their lips, noses bumping. The whole time Sherlock's mercurial eyes were locked on John's.

"_John-_" he whispered, his face contorting, his eyes finally clenching shut as his orgasm overtook him, pulsing against John's own erection.

"_Sherlock."_ John clung to him, holding him fiercely tight as his own climax washed over him in a sharp, sudden wave.

They lay gasping, locked in each others' embrace. John nuzzled at Sherlock's cheek until he turned his face for a kiss.

After a moment Sherlock drew back and John sighed with contentment. "That's what I needed," he said.

A small smile tugged at the corner of Sherlock's mouth as he gazed down at John. "Mm likewise."

John grinned. "Let's keep doing that, yeah?"

"Obviously," said Sherlock, his smile now teasing. He shifted off John to one side and propped himself up on one elbow, his expression sleepy and sated as he surveyed John.

John touched his face. "You can always ask me, you know. How I'm feeling."

Sherlock broke eye contact, suddenly intent on the pillow case. "Hm. I may note that you didn't exactly raise the issue with me either."

"Point taken," said John. He rolled over and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist. "In the interests of full disclosure, I'm going to wash your come off my body and then I'm going to sleep here because you are warm and lovely and I can't be arsed going upstairs."

Sherlock sighed and flexed and settled into his embrace. "Acceptable," he said and kissed John again.

Later, after John had showered and pulled his pants back on, he climbed into Sherlock's bed before he could have any second thoughts. He lay there, listening to Sherlock shutting off the shower, the little sounds of someone getting ready for bed, the clink of a toothbrush, the rustle of fabric. He looked up as Sherlock came into the bedroom, dressing gown over his nude form. He let it fall from his shoulders, exposing the long, pale length of his body, the various marks and bruises from his recent misadventures, and then he slipped into bed beside John, close against his side.

John hummed in approval and Sherlock slid his arm around his waist, tugging him back and arranging him until his back was flush against Sherlock's front. John chuckled at the thought of spooning, but settled back against him all the same. Sherlock wrapped an arm around his middle and buried his nose in the crook of John's shoulder.

"My John," he murmured.

John covered Sherlock's hand with his own and squeezed. "My Sherlock," he breathed. He smiled to himself. "Good night."

He felt a kiss against his shoulder. "Good night, John," Sherlock replied.


	18. Doing something together

WARNINGS: dub con/assumption of consent

**Day 18: Doing something together**

The next morning John woke up from a pleasant dream where Sherlock was languidly sucking his cock to the pleasant reality of Sherlock actually sucking his cock. He was suddenly very awake and he stretched and groaned with pleasure as he looked down to find Sherlock's wicked grey-green eyes watching him intently as he slowly moved his mouth up and down John's erection.

"Jesus, Sherlock," he breathed. "Good morning."

Sherlock drew off with an obscene pop. "Problem?" he asked.

John swallowed. "Only if you stop," he gasped.

Sherlock's mouth slid into a lazy smirk and he lowered his head again. John lay back, spread his legs wider and enjoyed.

Later, after Sherlock had swallowed his orgasm and had sat back on his heels, working his achingly hard erection urgently, muscles straining and lips gorgeously damp and reddened, and spilled onto the bedsheets, he crawled up John's sated and tingling body and kissed him thoroughly.

"Good morning," he said his deep voice rumbling but there was a hint there of something a little shy, so John seized him and buried his face in Sherlock's chest, holding tightly, because the tight feeling about his heart was just a bit overwhelming.

Sherlock exhaled and kissed the top of his head. "John, come with me to Norfolk this weekend."

John drew back, surprised. "What's in Norfolk?" He couldn't imagine Sherlock asking him for any reason other than a case, like an actual mini-break with B&Bs, eateries and sightseeing.

"I have been asked to attend the wedding of an old acquaintance. His daughter is getting married and he has doubts about her fiance's family. I'll be there under the guise of a guest."

"A case then?"

Sherlock, oddly, avoided his eyes. "Of sorts. It will be tediously dull and I'd rather not, but I thought if you will come-" Maybe he did want an excuse to take trip with John.

"Yeah, of course I'll be your plus one." John grinned.

Sherlock huffed and rolled into a sitting position. "Good. You'll need to take your best suit. It will be formal."

And then he was strutting off to the bathroom, giving John a very good view of his nude body, a view that John found he was starting to appreciate.

That afternoon, John left work early and was collected out the front of the clinic by Sherlock in a BMW Roadster.

John bit his bottom lip with a little pang of pure car lust and then slid into the passenger seat.

"Stylish," he said.

"Appearance is everything this weekend, John," said Sherlock and hit the accelerator.

"Right. Yeah. So, speaking of, am I...what this weekend? Your boyfriend? Partner? Husband? Close friend? In case anyone asks."

Sherlock glanced at him then returned his eyes to the road as he sped around cars, on his way towards the motorway.

"Partner is suitably ambiguous. We'll be staying at the family home though, so I told Victor we would only require one room."

"Victor? That's the name of your acquaintance?"

"Victor Trevor. Has been in India for years, made it big in tea, recently returned to England, to the family estate. His daughter, Cynthia, is getting married Saturday afternoon to Reginald Morris, Victor's already had a PI check them out but they've come up clean. He knows first hand of my skills and would like a second opinion, tomorrow morning, preferably."

"Right. So an old client then?"

"Not really, no."

"How'd you know him then?" John asked.

"University," said Sherlock. Sherlock didn't elaborate and he didn't look at John either. John turned to look out the passenger window. Old Uni acquaintance, like Sebastian Wilkes? He recalled Wilkes' derisive words; _we all hated him_. No wonder Sherlock wanted to take someone with him, to prove he wasn't the friendless weirdo that they'd all thought he was back then. John grinned to himself. He was Sherlock's trophy boyfriend. Well. He was more than happy to help Sherlock show off, in that case.


	19. In formal wear

**Warnings for this chapter:** angst and explicit sexy times

**Day 19: In formal wear**

Victor Trevor's familial estate was in Donnithorpe, Norfolk, just to the north of Langmere. It took Sherlock and John two and half hours to drive out there and it was almost dusk by the time Sherlock reached the tiny hamlet. He drove through it and then on for another mile before turning into a long driveway. They rounded a bend and there was Donnithorpe Manor, a stately brick home that could have come out of some BBC drama. Lights burned in most of the windows of the three floors and security lights came on in the driveway as they drove up to the house.

A man in a porter's uniform ran out to meet them and John glanced at Sherlock with raised eyebrows. This was posh.

"Good evening," said the lad. "Are you here for Miss Cynthia's wedding?"

"Of course," said Sherlock, stepping from the car and throwing the keys to the youth. "Luggage is in the back."

"Very good, Sir," said the porter.

John climbed out of the car and followed Sherlock up some impressive stairs to the main door.

A doorman, or maybe he was a butler, John wasn't sure about this sort of thing, inclined his head as they approached. "Good evening gentlemen. Who may I say is calling?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson," said Sherlock.

"Of course, Mr Holmes, Doctor Watson. Mr Trevor asked me to show you to his study when you arrive. This way if you please."

John trailed through long, grand looking corridors after Sherlock and the doorman/butler until they were shown into a small but cosy room. A fire burned in the fireplace, for which John was grateful after the open-air car ride. Victor Trevor was not in his study so John went and stood by the fireplace, warming his hands while they waited.

"This place is a bit flash," he said to Sherlock.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked, he'd been busy looking at the bookshelves behind Victor's desk.

"Yeah, 'course it is. Suppose you Oxbridge types are used to all this pomp and ceremony."

Sherlock shrugged. "I've been here before. It's a pleasant enough place to stay."

John frowned. "You've stayed here before? I thought you and Victor were just acquaintances."

"We were friends briefly, he invited me here one summer."

Friends. John bit the inside of his mouth and turned back to the fire, considering. Maybe not the Sebastian Wilkes type then. He was just about to ask what happened when the door opened and a tall man with curly blonde hair and an eager smile entered the room. He was slim and wore a fitted cable-knit jumper and a pair of jeans with an air of effortless style. John supposed he was handsome, if you were into that type. Victor paused for a moment when he saw Sherlock as if catching his breath and then crossed the space between them, hand out, a sun-beam smile on his face.

"Sherlock Holmes, oh my God, look at you!" he cried looking Sherlock up and down. "You've gotten even better looking, if that's possible!"

Sherlock for his part stood motionless as Victor Trevor approached and then let the other man clasp his hand.

"Victor," said Sherlock quietly. He licked his bottom lip.

John unclenched his fists and cleared his throat.

"Oh! This must be the famous John Watson," Victor cried, releasing Sherlock's hand and turning towards him. He shook John's hand heartily. "So pleased to meet you. I read your blog, it's fabulous. I keep seeing you both in the paper," he said glancing between the two of them. "I must admit- I was glad, very glad, when - well. Anyway, seeing someone come back from the dead puts things in perspective doesn't it?" He turned back to Sherlock, gaze a little too proprietory for John's liking. "I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd deleted my email, all things considered."

There was a light flush on Sherlock's cheek bones and he looked away, frowning. "You said you needed my help."

Victor's smile flagged for only a moment. "Yes, yes I do, but it was a good excuse to get in touch as much as anything. Twenty-years, can you believe it?"

"Well you know what they say," said John. "Time flies when you're having fun." He smiled brightly.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable as he looked back at Victor. "It's been a long time, yes," he said quietly. "I'll have the information you want before the wedding."

"Fantastic," said Victor. His smile slipped away as he bit his bottom lip thoughtfully, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes. "It's brilliant to see you again, it really is. It's so good you could come." He exhaled then looked around. "Look, I have to get back - wedding nonsense, but we'll catch up later, after dinner? Mrs Harris will show you to your rooms."

"Room," put in John. "We only need one room."

Sherlock shot him a glance and Victor looked back and forth between the two of them again. "Oh that's right, you did say- sorry. Well, take your pick." He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder. "Dinner's at seven. John, pleasure to meet you." And with a nod he was gone.

A brisk looking middle aged woman peered into the room. "Gentlemen, I'll show you to your room, if you'll follow me."

Mrs Harris took them upstairs and along a few more carpeted, portrait-laden halls to a large comfortable looking guest bedroom. John was almost expecting a four-poster bed and velvet drapes but instead it was furnished in a tasteful, modern style like an expensive hotel room.

"I'll have Doctor Watson's luggage brought over in a moment. My apologies for the misunderstanding," said Mrs Harris and then left them discreetly.

"Friend, huh," said John, sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed and bouncing a couple of times to test the mattress. "What happened between you two?"

Sherlock was fiddling with the crystal decanter of port on the dresser. He glared at it, examining it as if it was the most interesting point in the room.

"I deduced an unfortunate secret about his father. His past caught up to him and he died of heart failure. Victor was...crushed...he couldn't forgive my part in his father's downfall even though I was not to blame. He severed our connection, dropped out of Uni and went to India. We hadn't spoken since."

John's breath caught. He'd seen that expression on Sherlock's face before, that Christmas when they'd all thought Irene Adler had died.

"He- were you- together?"

Sherlock looked up at him, expression taut. "No- not that- I was never his boyfriend."

"But..."

Sherlock turned away. "We should get dressed for dinner."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock sighed and ran his hand through his hair before thrusting it, clenched into his pocket, but not before John saw it was shaking.

"There's nothing to tell John. All this talk of the past is boring. We have a job to do, for which Victor Trevor is paying us handsomely. Let's get a move along, shall we?"

There was a polite tap on the door and a staff member stood waiting with John's suitcase and suit bag.

* * *

Victor's daughter, Cynthia, was eighteen and her fiance, Reggie was twenty. They were obviously, sweetly in love. Cynthia's mother had passed away several years ago, Victor's only family, aside from his daughter, was an elderly aunt and uncle who would be arriving the next day. Reginald's family were new money. John quite liked Bob Morris, Reggie's father. He was bluff and wasn't ashamed one wit of his working class roots or his working class tastes. He told amusing stories that were a bit rough and he had a pragmatic worldview. Reggie was clearly both fond of and embarrassed by his parents, he did a lot of apologizing and saying '_Dad_'. Cynthia for her part didn't seem to mind her in-laws-to-be at all and kept taking their side against Reggie. Victor was old school upper class, above any concerns about gauche or boorish behaviour, ignoring anything truly beyond the pale, and being an unfailingly pleasant and convivial host. He was friendly, good natured and told amusing anecdotes filling any awkward gaps in conversation. Normally John would have quite liked him, which only made him hate him more. Especially when he kept looking down the table towards where Sherlock was seated.

The only other dinner guests were Cynthia's bridesmaids, Rebecca and Sumi, her aunt on her mother's side, Chitra, and Reggie's best man, George, and groomsman, Paul. Reggie's brothers would be arriving the next day.

Sherlock was silent throughout dinner, barely eating, as usual, but watching the conversation and guests intently. John knew better than to try to engage him in conversation, but he was aware of Victor watching them and he didn't want the man to think- well Sherlock had said the weekend was all about appearances, hadn't he? And 'boyfriend' or not, Sherlock had obviously been hurt by Victor ending their friendship. Sherlock might not be admitting anything but John was pretty sure he knew exactly why Sherlock hadn't want to come here alone. John put his hand on Sherlock's thigh and made sure Victor saw it.

Chitra, a dentist, specialising in neuromuscular dentistry in Singapore, was seated next to John. She was an interesting conversationalist, well travelled with plenty of amusing anecdotes, so he was easily able to distract himself from any uncomfortable thoughts he was having about Sherlock and their host. He was also able to glean plenty of information from her about Victor's history. He'd met Cynthia's mother, Ahladita, not long after arriving in India. She and Chitra's parents had been friends of Victor's father. The young couple married quickly and Cynthia was a honeymoon baby. John stored this information away, adding it to what he knew already about Sherlock and Victor. Victor wasn't flamboyantly, stereotypically gay, but his behaviour towards Sherlock indicated an attraction. Had Victor been in the closet when he was with Sherlock? Was that why-? Or was he bisexual? Maybe John wasn't the first man Sherlock had convinced to bat for the other team.

After dinner they all adjourned to the drawing room (John had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes) and had to laugh when he heard Bob Morris lean over to his wife and mutter, "We're in fucking Downton Abbey."

He ended up drinking port with Bob, finding out about his career as an entrepreneur, mostly real estate, but also the media and mining. Jen Morris, his wife, was his right hand person, the organisational half of the team. She was the one steering the wedding, amongst business deals and take overs. As they talked, John noticed Victor approach Sherlock who was standing alone by the fire. Victor leaned in to talk to him confidentially. John was pleased to note that Sherlock's body language was not receptive, he appeared stiff and his expression was deliberately blank. He said something brief to Victor in response and Victor lay his hand on Sherlock's arm. John's stomach clenched as he saw Sherlock glance down, then up, clearly affected by the casual gesture.

Victor made a joke, flashing his dazzling smile and John saw Sherlock's lips twitch slightly and his chest rise and fall as he huffed a laugh, his posture and body language relaxing slightly.

John was relieved when Chitra came over to join the two men, catching Victor's arm, and he turned his charm on her instead.

Sherlock moved away and John excused himself from Bob and walked over to him. He put his hand on the small of Sherlock's back and leaned into him. "Anything?" he asked.

Sherlock glanced away dismissively. "We might as well go to bed. I've seen all there is to see."

Victor walked them part way up the stairs after they'd said goodnight to the other guests. Sherlock told him what he'd deduced so far: Morris was under some financial strain, he had high cholesterol and chronic back pain. Reggie was an adrenalin junkie, into snowboarding, bungee jumping and skydiving but that was it as far as vices went. Jenn Morris was on antidepressants but had been so for years.

John marvelled as Sherlock listed off his reasoning for each deduction. He turned to Sherlock beaming, about to express his admiration.

"Fantastic!" exclaimed Victor beating him to it. "I'd forgotten what it was like to watch you in action. Utter brilliance."

Sherlock flushed with pleasure and John gave them both a dirty look.

"Well, I'd better be getting back to the rest of the guests," said Victor amiably. "Georgia is on night staff, so just ring down to the kitchen if you need anything." And then he was bounding down the stairs, like a fucking labrador puppy. John wanted to kick him.

"He seems nice enough," John said tetchily, perhaps watching a little too keenly for Sherlock's reaction.

"Hm," said Sherlock non-committedly. "He hasn't changed."

Questions sprang to mind, but John found he couldn't bring himself to ask any of them and instead followed Sherlock upstairs to their room.

He pulled him in for a kiss the minute they had closed the door, and found to his satisfaction that Sherlock seemed just as keen. In very little time John had him up against the door and was on his knees with his cock in his mouth. It was his second time ever giving a man head but he felt he was getting the hang of it, he'd figured out the trick of holding the base of Sherlock's cock and loosening his mouth so that Sherlock could fuck into him without getting bitten or choking him. He adjusted his own trousers with his free hand, the effect he was having on Sherlock making him very hard, and then cupped Sherlock's bollocks as they tightened and lifted up. Soon Sherlock was quickening his pace, his hand threading through John's hair, his other gripping his shoulder, thrusting and panting, until, with a low cry, he came into John's mouth.

Afterwards he dropped to his knees, plundering John's mouth with his tongue and tugging down John's zip, clasping his aching erection and stroking him into a very satisfying climax.

They collapsed against each other on the floor for a bit before John hauled Sherlock to his feet and they staggered off to bed.

* * *

Victor was absent the next morning at breakfast, for which John was eminently grateful. Not long afterwards though Bob Morris collared John to go fishing for the morning and Sherlock was left to wander about the library until the other guests arrived, waiting in particular for Reggie's brothers.

When John returned, fishless, around eleven, Sherlock was nowhere to be found. He wandered around the house for a bit, dodging out of the way of caterers and frantic bridesmaids and then went outside to look for Sherlock on the grounds. He finally found him in the garage, or rather garages, with Victor, Reggie and two other young men, inspecting Victor's vintage car collection. The line of shiny, classic motor vehicles were a car lover's wet dream and John was not immune to their charms. Seriously? Tall, good looking, charming, rich and now the fucker had an e-type Jaguar.

Sherlock was busy watching the four other men talk, John told himself it was for the case but he couldn't help noticing that Sherlock's gaze was focused particularly in the direction of Victor.

"Hello," John said, joining them.

"Oh John," said Victor. "You found us." He introduced Reggie's brother's, both in their early twenties and both seemed to be decent young men. John shook their hands and joined them in admiring the cars.

He noticed Victor go to stand at the back with Sherlock and saw him lean in and murmur something in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock turned his intent gaze upon Victor's face and John did not like that look, did not like it at all. Sherlock murmured something in reply and he and Victor conversed in low voices, a great deal too close and too personal for John's liking. He was about to go and join them when Victor tilted his head towards the door and Sherlock nodded. He didn't even look to see if John noticed he was going as he followed Victor out of the garage.

John swallowed, torn. Jealousy demanded he follow them, but the rational part of his brain knew Sherlock might need a chance to talk, to sort through a few things. Still he spent an uncomfortable ten minutes, trying and failing to pay attention to the Morris boys as he alternatively watched the time and the door. He had just about decided that Sherlock had had enough time to talk alone with Victor when he reappeared at the doorway, re-buttoning his jacket, searching the garage until his gaze locked upon John's. He glanced towards the door and John nodded. He made his excuses to the lads and followed Sherlock's long coat as it disappeared out the garage door. Sherlock was already halfway towards the house when John caught up to him, grabbing his arm.

"What's going on?"

"Our room," said Sherlock shortly and strode off, expecting John to follow.

The moment they were inside their room, Sherlock slammed the door and pushed John against it, kissing him fiercely, hips and erection pressed firmly against John's belly.

All John's jealousy, his uncertainty, bubbled over and he kissed back possessively, gripping Sherlock to him with both hands and grinding his own hard-on against his thigh.

Sherlock dragged his lips away. "I want you inside me. I want to be yours," he growled.

John groaned at the thought. "Fuck yes," he gasped and pushed Sherlock towards the bed.

They shed their clothes on the way, stripping each other, and John fished the condoms and lube from his toiletries bag before crawling across the bed towards Sherlock's nude body, splayed out on the white sheets, waiting for him. John was hard and Sherlock was too, his erection flushed and beaded with precome against his belly.

John crouched between his thighs and pushed his legs back, leaning down to mouth and lick at Sherlock's prick for a moment as he uncapped the lube and squished some onto his hand, rubbing it between his fingers to warm it. With one last lick to Sherlock's cock, he reached between Sherlock's arse cheeks and found his puckered hole, rubbing against it with a gentle pressure until his forefinger breached the tight ring, sinking in, he pushed in slowly, taking his time, enjoying the sound of Sherlock's hissed breathes and bitten off moans, finding the action totally different to the clinical procedures he'd conducted as a doctor. It was very handy, however, to know exactly how to locate the prostate gland.

Sherlock cried out as John stroked the sensitive bundle of nerves inside his body, and then fucked him with one finger for a while, hitting that spot repeatedly until Sherlock was writhing on this hand, demanding more. He added another finger and then when both could slide easily he, reached for the condom. He paused, stuck by the logistics-

"Going to need some help," he said, tossing the foil packet towards Sherlock one-handed. Sherlock thrust back lightly onto his fingers, as he opened the packet, pulling the condom free and, with a grunt, and a bit of awkward maneuvering, rolled it onto John's prick. He lay back down and John settled between his thighs again. He squeezed some lube onto his cock with his free hand then slicked up, positioned himself and carefully slid his fingers out and replaced them with the head of his cock.

Carefully, so carefully, he pushed in.

Sherlock groaned and John stilled, waited a bit and then carefully rocked forward. Sherlock's eyes were shut tight, his head thrown back and his thigh muscles quivering.

"Relax," murmured John, rubbing soothingly at Sherlock's tense thigh.

Sherlock exhaled and John felt him relax and he pressed in another inch. Sherlock groaned again and then bore down onto John and he slid in even further. Sherlock was so tight, so hot, John felt himself shaking with the effort not to just thrust home.

He pushed forward again and Sherlock met him and with a full-body groan from them both John was completely sheathed.

He looked up at Sherlock and found him staring back, eyes dark and lips parted, cheeks flushed and a look of trembling surprise on his features. John leaned forward, bracing himself over him and kissed his mouth, his jaw, his throat.

"All right?" he panted, holding himself still, steady.

"Yes, " Sherlock gasped. "Move, John, please-"

John kissed him hard and began to thrust, slow and deep. Sherlock groaned and bit his lip, clinging to John's shoulders. John bowed his head and concentrated on breathing, on keeping steady, trying not to become overwhelmed too fast, too quickly by the wonderful feeling of being inside Sherlock, feeling him around him, the tight heat around his cock, the shudder and tremble of his body, the bruising grip of his fingers and the flutter of his pulse as John bent his lips to his throat.

He sank into rhythm and sensation, each thrust and breath forced from his lungs, each corresponding exhalation from Sherlock, each gasp and moan. He held himself over Sherlock, watching his face, lost as he was in sensation, his eyes unfocused as he looked off to the side, his breaths ragged.

"God...so beautiful..." he whispered. "Sherlock-"

"Victor," Sherlock breathed.

John stopped, heart pounding, just as realisation dawned on Sherlock's expression, his eyes suddenly widened and he looked at John in shock, face paling.

"_John_-"

John swallowed and pulled out. His heart was thudding and he got to his feet, grabbing up his pants. He somehow made it to the bathroom and shut the door. He stripped off the condom and threw it into the trash and then he turned on the shower and tugged himself off until there was no longer an ache in his balls. He leaned his head against the shower tiles and tried to steady his breathing, soothe the heavy, tight pain in his chest.

Finally he turned off the shower and stepped out. He dried himself off and then pulled on his pants. He felt numb.

Sherlock was curled up on his side of the bed, facing outwards when John emerged from the bathroom. He walked over to the bed and got in on his side, lying stiffly on the edge, facing away from Sherlock.

There were so many things to be said and they all stuck in his throat.

Sherlock broke the silence, voice unsteady. "I thought I could cope with seeing him again, if you were with me. I didn't realise-"

John's throat was thick but his words came out sharp and cold. "I'll ask again and don't lie to me this time. What happened between you and Victor?"

There was a long silence and John thought Sherlock might not answer. Then Sherlock sighed and when he spoke, his voice was soft, thoughtful. "He was my only friend at University. I thought quite a lot of him and he...liked me. I didn't realise in what way until the summer, when we were here. We kissed. We just kissed. I liked that. Looking back, I don't think he was comfortable with his sexuality, and I avoided the concept totally, didn't want anything to do with it, too hard, too complicated- So we didn't- Then I revealed the truth about his father and I was sent home early. Victor asked me to come back when his father lay dying, he needed my help, but then, after the funeral, he- He said he never wanted to see me again." His voice caught. "I didn't lie. It was nothing, just foolish sentiment on the part of a lonely adolescent who imagined himself in love."

John curled in on himself, his pulse loud in his ears. The word Victor, breathed with such reverence, echoing in his ears, sullying what he'd thought was a special moment between them, meanwhile Sherlock had been off in his mind palace somewhere, thinking about someone else.

Sherlock's voice broke the silence. "He kissed me. I told him I wasn't interested, that I was with you."

John felt sick. Victor had dumped Sherlock and now he was back, regretful, wanting a second chance. _Kissing_ Sherlock. Right under John's nose. Worse, John could understand that Sherlock, whose heart had been so badly broken he'd crushed down all emotion and tried not to feel anything, might jump at the chance to...have closure? Try again? This thing between John and Sherlock, it was too new, too fragile to compete with years of longing and repressed feeling.

John heard Sherlock turn over in the bed and felt the touch of his fingertips on his shoulder, tentative, hesitant.

"Do you want to sleep with him?" John asked harshly, not caring how bitter he sounded. "I'm sure he'd jump at the chance, if you let him."

The silence stretched between them before Sherlock answered. "You're important to me, John." But what he didn't say told John his answer more clearly than any words; yes, yes he did. John wrapped an arm around his stomach. It ached, his chest ached, his throat burned.

"Right," he said and shut his eyes tightly.

Sherlock's hand stayed on his shoulder and John stayed where he was. Eventually he had to move and he rolled out of bed and started to get dressed. He heard Sherlock slide out of bed as well. They dressed in silence, into their suits for the wedding. John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him but he didn't turn, couldn't look at him.

"John-"

He stilled, waiting for Sherlock to finish.

"Thank you, for staying."

John finished tying his tie in the mirror, refusing to look at Sherlock's reflection. "I'm still your friend. We have a case."

Sherlock gave a small sound like the merest exhalation.

John pulled on his waistcoat, his jacket. "Besides," he added, tone clipped. "I don't want to give Victor Trevor the satisfaction."

He sat on the bed and put on his shoes. He did not look at Sherlock.

"I'll meet you downstairs," he said.

"Yes," said Sherlock and if his voice caught slightly midway through the word, John couldn't care less.

He paused at the door. "Do me a favour, if you are going to fuck him, let me know first so I can not be here."

* * *

End note: No one has commented on this but I thought I should point out: obviously John did not use a condom out of any conscious attempt to prevent STIs - given they've already had that discussion and exchanged bodily fluids. My head canon is it's a force of habit for John to use a condom when having penetrative sex, and also condoms have their uses mess-wise...

PS: Don't hurt me, I'll fix it before chapter 30!


	20. Dancing

**Day 20: Dancing**

There was a group of guests milling in the hallway and spilling into the drawing room. John joined them as he came downstairs. This would be where Sherlock's skills were needed, if all of Reggie's immediate family had passed muster, he would need to deduce any peripheral family members.

How much was Victor paying them for this job? How much was it worth to have their relationship, this fragile, precious thing, he had with Sherlock ruined. John should have demanded they leave, then and there, but the risk that Sherlock wouldn't, that he would stay here regardless of what John did, wasn't one he was willing to take. Besides, this thing with Victor was obviously something Sherlock needed to work through, if there was to be any hope of salvaging their relationship.

God, was this how Sherlock had felt, waiting for John to choose between him and Mary?

John didn't want to think about it, any of it, any more.

John looked around at the guests. There was no sign of Victor but that was to be expected given he was the father of the bride. John's stomach twisted at the thought of Sherlock thinking of Victor as John moved inside him. He didn't even know if he could bear to be with Sherlock anymore, not after this.

He jumped slightly as someone gripped his arm, he looked up to see Sherlock at his side. John's stomach plummeted, he looked _dashing_ in his charcoal tux, untouchable. John wrenched his arm free but Sherlock grabbed it again, fingers digging in sharply as he leaned in close, breath warm against John's ear.

"I said you were important," Sherlock bit out in a low, rough voice. "I'm not now, or ever, going to fuck Victor Trevor. Don't be an idiot."

And then he was gone, drifting through the gathered guests, scanning the crowd for whatever evidence he was looking for.

John realised his hands were shaking and, furious, he clenched them into fists at his side. So Sherlock wasn't going to sleep with Victor. That was supposed to make it all better, was it? Sherlock wouldn't fuck Victor, but instead he was going to fantasise about him every time they had sex. Oh yes, that was so much better.

John desperately needed some air. He strode outside, out onto the grounds and followed a path through a faux Japanese garden until his pulse calmed and he could unclench his fists.

Why had Sherlock even wanted to have sex with him earlier? So he could pretend he was fucking Victor? Had it always been Victor from the moment Sherlock ordered him to bed? But no. If he'd wanted Victor, why hadn't he just fucked him? He must have at least valued his relationship with John enough to reject Victor's advances (or maybe he just wanted to punish Victor, a cruel part of him noted, and then take out his pent up lust on John). The thought that he'd only been a stand in for someone else made him feel physically ill.

_I want you inside me. I want to be yours._

Sherlock's words were John's only comfort. He'd thought he'd known what they meant at the time; Sherlock rejecting Victor's advances, choosing John, reassuring John, wanting John. Now he wasn't sure. At what point had Sherlock stopped thinking about belonging to John and started imagining being with Victor?

The humiliation and hurt returned full force and he had to stop to catch his breath against the ache.

_Move, John, please-_

He remembered the moment he'd entered Sherlock, he couldn't bear to think that hadn't been real either.

He didn't know if he could be with Sherlock again. Didn't know if this mad, brilliant thing they had could come back from this.

John turned around and started back towards the house. Cars were pulling up in the drive, elegant guests alighting. It was still early spring, too cold for plenty of the dresses the women were wearing.

Why were Reggie and Cynthia even getting married now? Surely they could wait until warmer weather, it wasn't like they had to book this house six months in advance. John frowned. Eighteen was very young, he couldn't imagine wanting to get married even at twenty. Maybe she was pregnant, although surely that was something Sherlock would have deduced. Maybe he did and didn't think it worth mentioning.

Reggie and his brothers were standing a little way away in the rose garden, deep in conversation. John hadn't even had a chance to ask Sherlock if he'd deduced anything of importance about them.

He took a deep breath and, feeling a bit more in control of himself, at least calm enough not to start shouting at Sherlock or punching the father of the bride in his stupid, handsome face, John wandered back inside. The guests were filing into the drawing room which had been set up for the ceremony with rows of chairs and masses of hot house flowers.

Sherlock was standing at the back, tall, aloof and painfully gorgeous. John took a breath and went over to stand next to him. Focus on the case. That was the only reason why they were still here anyway.

"Anything on the Morris boys?" he asked stiffly.

Sherlock glanced down at John, hesitating for a moment. "Yes," he said, then leaned towards him to speak confidentially. John squared his jaw, willing his body not to react to his proximity, to betray how it affected him. "Robert Morris Junior deals in methamphetamines. Not something Victor has any right to hold against him, but could be embarrassing for the family if he gets himself arrested. I believe it may be a family business. Not Bob senior, he's disconnected from it, but...hmm...Uncle Mark bears further investigation."

John filed away this little tidbit about Victor, wondering if he'd had any connection with Sherlock's own drug use. "What will you do about it?" he asked.

"We close down the drug lab - little Robert is out of a job and finds himself some gainful employment."

John tried to ignore the buzz of excitement at the thought of busting a drug ring. "So you're just waiting to find out who he works for?"

"And then we pay them a discreet visit." Sherlock paused. "John-"

John glanced at him before he could think better of it. Sherlock's expression was strained.

"You'll come with me?" he asked.

John looked away, clenched his jaw before answering in a clipped tone. "Of course. Don't be an idiot."

He inhaled deeply and looked around. He watched two female guests enter the drawing room, wrapping shawls tightly about their shoulders over dresses that weren't meant to be worn in this weather. It reminded him of his earlier thoughts. "Why are they getting married now anyway? Why the rush? It's practically winter, and they're only kids for fuck's sake. Would it have hurt to wait a few months?"

There was a resounding silence from Sherlock and then John heard him audibly suck in a breath.

"That's it," he gasped.

John turned to look at him. Sherlock's mouth twitched just slightly into a rueful smile. "Well done, John," he said softly and then he was brushing past him and heading out of the room.

John hesitated a full thirty seconds before he hurried after him. He exited the drawing room in time to see Sherlock enter Victor's library. John followed him and stopped. Victor Trevor stood there along with his daughter, resplendent in her bridal gown. They both turned to stare at Sherlock.

"Victor, a word," said Sherlock and John was surprised by the sharpness in his tone.

"Excuse me a moment, sweetheart," Victor said to Cynthia and followed Sherlock back out of the library, past John. He peeled off the wall and followed them across the hallway into another room, someone's office by the look of it.

"What is it?" Victor asked shortly after John had shut the door behind them.

"Bob Morris is going to leave the country next month for a tax haven and is planning on being away for a long time. That's why they wanted to have the wedding early, so they could attend. That's why you couldn't find any information on him, nothing's actually happened yet, but it will - his business is in trouble, he's going to do something to keep his fortune, something not particularly legal."

Victor blanched. "Cynthia? Reggie?"

"If Cynthia goes abroad with Reggie you may end up not seeing her for quite awhile. Otherwise I'm sure Bob Morris will transfer a few of the clean parts of his business to his sons. Maybe not Robert, he's a drug dealer, although Bob might decide to use some connections there."

"Oh God..."

"Jenn Morris's brother is part of that business, I still have to ascertain the location of the meth lab. Once I do, John and I will shut it down tonight. If Robert is careful he won't be linked. I suggest you find him a job."

Victor rubbed his hand through his hair and exhaled. "Right. That's - All right. I'd better talk to Bob."

"Not until after we've gone, I don't want any interference with our plans."

"Okay, fine." Victor looked at Sherlock ruefully. "Thank you, Sherlock."

"It's what you hired me to do."

"Yes," said Victor, his expression tinged with something that resembled regret.

Sherlock turned on his heel. "John?" he asked holding out his hand. John knew what that gesture meant. He knew the point Sherlock was trying to make. It was only his desire to say 'up yours' to Victor, however, that induced him to take Sherlock's hand, and once out of the room he dropped it.

He didn't look at Sherlock and Sherlock didn't comment. John flexed his hand and went back to the drawing room.

Sherlock however did not even make an appearance through the entire ceremony. John looked around several times but he couldn't spot Sherlock's distinctive figure among the hundred and fifty guests. Victor led his daughter up the aisle and handed her to Reggie Morris. They seemed young and innocent in their happiness.

Nor was Sherlock at the reception and John found himself sat next to a couple from Manchester who were friends of the groom's mother. Sherlock's seat was empty. He told himself that it was typical of the great prat, running off without a by-your-leave. At least Victor was present the whole time, so he didn't have to worry that Sherlock was off somewhere with him - which was the only thing that kept John from leaving then and there.

He got up to go to the toilet after the toasts. As he was coming back he ran into Victor. John was going to walk by without acknowledging him but Victor stopped him.

"John," he said, hand falling onto his shoulder with a familiarity John resented. "Look, I'm sorry- I suppose Sherlock told you- I shouldn't have kissed him. He was quite right to punch me and I understand that you probably want to do the same- I just want you to know, I only want him to be happy." He looked away, mouth pressed tight. "I appreciate his help today. If you could tell him that I'd like to keep in touch? As friends."

John blinked. "Sherlock punched you?" It was then that he noticed the faint mark on Victor's jaw, concealed with makeup. He found himself grinning. He clapped Victor on the arm. "Yeah, sure, I'll tell him. Uh, congratulations, the wedding was beautiful."

He turned to go, but then decided a few home truths needed to be shared. He looked back at Victor. "You broke his heart you know, before. Did a real number on him. Don't think for a moment I'm going to let you have the chance to do it again." And he smiled, so very politely and walked away.

Sherlock still wasn't there when John returned to his seat. He managed to ignore the niggle of concern through the cake cutting, right up until the bride and groom stood for the first dance. He'd just got out his mobile to send a text when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He glanced up to see Sherlock standing beside him, looking down with an inscrutable expression.

"May I have this dance?" he asked.

John was about to say sod off, but then he saw a something flicker across Sherlock's face, leaving his expression tense and earnest. John's mouth went dry. He stood and followed Sherlock onto the dance floor. John suddenly flashed back to the dancing lesson in Brighton and he laughed ruefully.

"You have to be the girl, I've only learnt the boy's part," he said.

Sherlock's lips twitched but he didn't relax, didn't lose his serious expression. He put one hand on John's shoulder and took his other. John put his hand on Sherlock's hip, suddenly very aware of him, his closeness, his cologne, his warmth. Unbidden the image came to him of Sherlock, underneath him, penetrated for the first time ever, wracked by emotion and sensation, and then his expression, changing to shock as he realised what he'd stupidly said. With a twinge, John remembered just pulling out and leaving him there, unsatisfied, unfinished, alone. He'd been too hurt to care before, but now it bothered him. He felt the slender reality of Sherlock's waist under his palm. He could not bring himself to look up at his face.

Sherlock took a step and they joined in the dance.

"We'll leave when this dance finishes," said Sherlock. "The car is waiting out the front, I've packed our belongings."

Oh, so that's why he wanted to dance, to talk logistics in private.

"Fine," said John, concentrating on his feet.

He felt Sherlock's hand tighten on his arm.

"John."

There was something in his tone and John looked up. Looked up and was caught by green-blue eyes and a look that spoke of regret and resignation. Sherlock's hands tightened and John stopped, bringing them to a halt on the dance floor.

He couldn't look away, couldn't break the tenuous moment. Sherlock's expression made him ache, he looked at John as if this might be the last time he would ever get to hold him. John's chest hurt. Maybe it was.

The song ended, there was a smattering of applause and then Sherlock drew in a shuddering breath and slowly released John's hands.

"We have to go," he murmured.

John swallowed. "All right," he said and they slipped out of the wedding reception.


	21. Cookingbaking

**Day 21: Cooking/baking**

The Roadster was parked off to the side of the driveway, the top up and their luggage in the boot. John pulled his coat on over his suit jacket and climbed into the passenger seat just as Sherlock was winding his scarf around his neck. Sherlock pulled on his gloves and slid into the driver's seat.

"Gun's in the glove compartment," he said.

John flipped it open and found his Sig, pocketing it.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Norwich. I took the liberty of searching some of the guests' rooms while they were busy at the wedding. Dear Uncle Mark left his appointment book on his bed. Interesting reading. I have an address."

John bit back the 'fantastic' that automatically came to his lips, making a non-committal sound instead.

They drove in silence, John's mind churning through what had happened. He was still angry, furious with Sherlock - for not telling him about Victor in the first place, for dragging him along to meet up with his old boyfriend (no matter what Sherlock claimed), dumping him in the middle of an emotional mess and then running off to play with a case, and mostly, most of all, for taking what had seemed to be a perfect moment of connection and instead revealing in the most humiliating way possible that he wasn't even thinking about John.

And now, John had discovered that Sherlock had punched Victor in the face when he'd tried to kiss him. Admittedly that did go a long way to helping - proving incorrect John's earlier visions of Sherlock responding to Victor's overtures before reluctantly rejecting them. But then why had he called Victor's name during sex? Why had he all but admitted he wanted to sleep with Victor, if he then claimed he was never going to fuck him?

Questions formed but then stuck in John's throat. It shouldn't be his job to coax out an explanation, he'd had enough of trying to pry information from Sherlock. John bit his lip. Sherlock had said he was important to him. Was that enough, for both of them? He didn't know - part of him mourned what had been lost but still part of him couldn't bring himself to put himself out there, smooth things over and be the one to make things right. Sherlock had broken them. If Sherlock wanted this, wanted there to be a John-and-Sherlock, then he should be the one to fix it.

He watched the dark shape of the countryside at night flash by.

If they didn't fix things, what then? Could he go back to how things were? Back to just friendship, a close, demanding and codependent friendship? Without the release of sexual intimacy? Knowing what else there could be? Knowing what it was like to touch Sherlock, kiss him, be inside him?

John groaned aloud and sat up straight, feeling his face heat.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Nope," said John.

Silence fell again.

"You punched Victor," John said abruptly.

He felt, rather than saw, Sherlock look at him. "I did."

"You didn't think that was pertinent, to, you know, mention earlier, when you told me he kissed you?"

"Would it have made a difference?" Sherlock voice was neutral, carefully so.

John exhaled. Would it have made a difference? He might not have assumed Sherlock was actively considering fucking his ex for one. Would that have made a difference to how hurt he'd felt, still felt? To how the very thought of touching Sherlock was rife with humiliation and ruined now?

"No, probably not," he said. He rubbed at his eyes. "You called his name, Sherlock."

The only sound was the hum of the car engine, the whirr of the air conditioning valiantly fighting the cold night air. John reached for the radio, fiddling around with it until he found some halfway decent music.

He sat back.

"I wasn't thinking about him," said Sherlock. "Not in the way you think."

John clenched his hand against the car seat. Sherlock didn't elaborate however and finally it got the better of John.

"What were you thinking about then?" he snapped. "Because it sounded an awful lot like you thought it was Victor who had his cock up your arse."

He heard the creak of Sherlock's leather gloves against the steering wheel, as if he was flexing his hands.

"It's hard to explain."

John turned to look at him then. "Try."

Sherlock exhaled heavily. "If you must know-" He took a breath. "I didn't like it. It was too intense, the sensation was overwhelming and I...focused on something else to in order to...process. I found myself thinking about Victor, how he is now, how he was then. The...last time we had spoken. When you said my name, told me I was beautiful- I accessed the right emotional file but the wrong name." He clenched his jaw, frowning in frustration.

John felt sick. "You didn't like it? Christ, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip and focused on the road. "It wasn't terrible."

John slumped in his seat. "Thanks. Thanks for that. Not terrible. Well now I feel even more like shit. You sure you wouldn't like to kick me in the balls as well?"

Sherlock's tone was clipped and sharp. "I knew you wouldn't want to hear it. I admit neither alternative is ideal but since you are determined not to excuse my lapse, I thought I might as well set the record straight."

"Nope, nope, I feel much better now. You weren't using me as a stand in for sex with your ex, instead the sex was so terrible you couldn't be bothered paying attention. Glad you cleared that up."

"Mature John, resorting to sarcasm."

John grit his teeth and turned to glare out the window. Sherlock might as well have taken his masculinity and thrown it out of the moving car, it would have had the same effect. Not only could he not blame Sherlock for supposedly fantasising about Victor, but now it was his fault because he was a shit lover.

Fucking hell.

He sunk into silence, staring out the window, resentment settling over him like a shroud.

Finally the countryside gave way to the bright lights and urban density of Norwich. The GPS gave them directions to an mid-eighties block of flats.

"We're here," said Sherlock quietly.

John exhaled. "Right then, let's get on with it," he said.

They parked the car around the corner and walked up the darkened street. It was late and there were very few cars or people around. Out of the car, slipping through the darkened street, it was easy to put aside the emotional tension. The excitement of a case and the anticipation of adventure focused John's attention on this older, possibly more important, aspect of his relationship with Sherlock. The Work, a case, danger and excitement.

There was no lock on the main entrance of the block of flats and they quietly made their way up the flight of stairs to the fourth floor. Sherlock pulled out his lockpick roll from the pocket of his Belstaff and made short work of the door. He pushed it open quietly and they crept inside, John's hand in his pocket, resting on his gun.

John went left and Sherlock went right. The first door led to a bathroom, John flicked the switch - empty. He opened the next door, a bedroom, there was a mattress on the floor but there was no one in there.

"Found it," said Sherlock in a low voice and John joined him in the second bedroom, or rather the meth lab. It was an impressive set up, John had to admit. The beakers and glass containers connected with tubes looked like their kitchen on a good day. Actually Sherlock probably _had_ made methamphetamines out of sheer curiosity. The strong chemical smelll of solvents filled the room. Something was cooking on a small heating element and there was some orange liquid slowly filtering into a container.

"Right. Now what?" he asked.

"The unfortunate thing about meth labs," said Sherlock, his teeth flashing in the half light coming from the bathroom. "Is that they tend to catch fire with distressing regularity." He fished in his pocket and pulled out two face masks. He flicked one to John. "Put this on. Toxic fumes."

John pulled on the disposable respirator mask as Sherlock strode into the lab, checking the various bottles lining the shelves.

There was a sudden, rather disturbingly loud click right behind John's ear. Fear trickled down his spine.

"Now that's mine," said a woman's voice. "I suggest you put it down."

Sherlock had frozen, and although his face was obscured by the mask, there was a look in his eyes that John had seen before; at the pool when he'd walked out with semtex strapped to his chest, in Irene Adler's house with a CIA gun pointed at his head. John exhaled slowly, and put his hands in the air.


	22. In battle, side-by-side

**Warnings:** dubious science

**Day 22: In battle, side-by-side**

John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock's eyes widened briefly in a silent question. John blinked 'C', the abbreviation for Yes, in morse code.

Sherlock looked at the woman holding a gun to John's head. "All r-right," he said, sounding nervous, stuttering. "D-don't, d-o anyth-thing s-silly." He carefully went to put down the bottle he was holding but his hand was shaking and it fell as he placed it on the bench.

"Oops, s-sorry, c-clumsy," he said, still stuttering, fumbling to right the container, but merely succeeding in knocking over a beaker of water and starting the first bottle rolling towards the edge of the bench.

"Idiot! That has lithium in it!" the woman cried, pushing past John to grab the bottle before it fell on the floor tiles.

John and Sherlock dived out of the way just as the bottle smashed on the floor. The concotion containing the lithium battery acid reacted with air and started to burn and then the spilled water ran off the table to join it and the whole mess exploded.

The woman fell backwards and John, safely outside the room scrambled to his feet, grabbing his gun out of his pocket. He grabbed the woman, who was lying on the floor just inside the door and pulled her out of the room, kicking her gun back into the lab, out of reach. She started coughing and ran off somewhere.

"Sherlock!" John shouted. The room was full of smoke and the stench of chemicals but he could see Sherlock against the window, low on the floor on the other side of the fire. "Sherlock!" He yelled again, a desperate fear clawing it's way up his throat.

And then Sherlock was moving, standing, pressed up against the window. He flung it open and climbed out. John ran out of the room, shutting the door to contain the fire as much as possible, and dashed out onto the balcony. Sherlock was on the window ledge. John hooked his foot in the balcony rails and leaned forward, as far as possible, holding out his hand. Sherlock edged towards him.

"Out of the way, John, I'm going to jump for it," he gasped. It was a good two metres and the word jump used in relation to Sherlock did bad things to John's insides.

"Don't be fucking stupid," he snapped, but Sherlock leapt anyway and hit the railing with an oof, his feet scrabbling for purchase. John grabbed his arm and the back of his coat and hauled him over the metal rail. He stumbled to his feet and in a moment they were back inside the flat. The woman was gone. From the lab there came the tinkle of breaking glass and noxious smoke crept under the door. They bolted out of the flat, shutting the door behind them. John hit the building's smoke alarm and then ran to the flats on either side of the one they'd been in, pounding on the doors to yell 'fire' while Sherlock dialled 999 and gave terse instructions. The doors of other flats were opening at the sound of the alarm, bleary eyed residents peering out in dismay.

"Let's go," hissed Sherlock and they ran down the stairs and out of the building. They could hear sirens as they reached the Roadster. Sherlock threw the keys at John and fell into the passenger seat, tearing off his mask and gasping. John followed suit and they drove off just as a fire engine rounded the corner.

John pulled over at a petrol station on the outskirts of Norwich.

"Out of the car," he snapped, opening his own door. He marched around and wrenched open the passenger door and hauled Sherlock bodily from the car, pushing him up against the side of the vehicle. He checked Sherlock's face, his eyes and examined a scrape on his cheek. He reached for Sherlock's wrist and put his ear to Sherlock's chest.

"Deep breaths," he ordered, counting Sherlock's pulse rate as he listened to his lungs. Sherlock winced at each breath, but his chest sounded clear, at least their masks had done their job. John pulled back and opened his suit jacket and waistcoat. He tugged up his shirt and slid his hand up under his shirt, feeling his ribs.

He didn't need to ask if it hurt, Sherlock's hiss was enough answer."You've probably done your ribs again, idiot. A&E for you."

"Not here. Too dangerous. It can wait until London."

John breathed out through his nose. "Fine," he said tightly. "Get in dickhead, we're going to the hospital."

Sherlock grabbed his wrist, his other hand going to John's face.

"You're all right?" he asked, voice harsh, running his hand through John's hair and back again, eyes darting over John's face.

John's mouth was dry, the anger that had been driving him, fueled by the day's tension and by Sherlock's close call, suddenly deserted him. He swallowed as he nodded.

"Yeah. Yeah I'm fine."

And then Sherlock crushed their mouths together, wrenching him close on an inhaled breath.

John froze, the heat and force of Sherlock's kiss shocking him. He gasped against his mouth and Sherlock stilled, nose and forehead pressed against John's. They held there for a heartbeat, lips still touching, two ragged breaths. John shifted- to claim the kiss or pull away, he wasn't certain- but then Sherlock was stepping back, his face twisting. He released John's wrist and he turned away, righting his clothes.

John exhaled and rubbed at the back of his neck. He felt oddly bereft. "I'm going to grab a coffee before the drive back. Want anything?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. "No. Thank you," he said and folded his lanky body into the passenger seat to wait.


	23. Arguing

**Day 23: Arguing**

John returned with two coffees anyway.

Sherlock was leaning back in the passenger seat, head tipped back, he opened his eyes as John climbed in beside him and sat up.

John handed him his coffee and put his own in the cup holder.

"All right?" he asked gruffly.

"Yes, fine," said Sherlock. He looked out the window. John exhaled loudly at this obvious attempt at avoidance. Right. Fine.

He started the car, and all but screeched out of the petrol station. It was all wrong. They'd just outwitted a criminal and escaped with their lives, instead of giggling stupidly and riding the adrenalin high, they were tense and angry. John should be marvelling at Sherlock's brilliance, overwhelmed by his adoration of the great prat and basking in his admiration in return, instead he just felt a sick resentment and a crushing weight in his midsection.  
Even Sherlock's kiss, a kiss that should have been celebratory and joyful, only served to remind John that what they had was broken and of the last time they'd been together, tainted by humiliation and hurt.

John turned on the radio and focused on the road, trying to ignore the prickle of awareness of Sherlock's presence, the misery in his chest. Angry words, hurt words, bitter words came to mind but none of them would fix this and they all lodged in his throat. John breathed through his nose, the tension curling down his spine to lodge in his lower back.

They didn't speak on the drive back to London and by the steady sound of Sherlock's breathing John assumed he'd fallen asleep. He had another gulp of coffee and focused on the road.

He was lost in thought as they entered London proper, worrying at Sherlock's words and actions, his own words and actions, like a loose tooth. As they stopped at the lights he shook himself from his reverie and glanced over towards the other seat. Sherlock was no longer asleep, he was looking fixedly ahead, sharp features pale and tense, his mouth pulled into a thin line, one arm wrapped across his stomach. He was a picture of pure misery and John's anger deserted him and left him aching.

He pulled into the car park at University College Hospital and climbed out. Sherlock unfolded himself from the car without a word. There was a long wait at the A&E for Sherlock to get his ribs checked out. John dozed on the hard chairs and woke with his face in Sherlock's shoulder, a patch of drool forming under his half open mouth. He sat up quickly, rubbing at his face, embarrassed.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's fine," replied Sherlock quietly.

Eventually Sherlock was able to see a doctor. There was no new damage but he'd undone all the healing on his previous injury and the yellow and green bruise was now marked with a new livid red.

The sun was up by the time they were able to leave.

"I'll drop you back at Baker Street and then return the car," said John as he unlocked the doors.

"Fine," said Sherlock, curling gingerly back into the passenger seat.

He looked out the window again as John started the engine, a deep furrow on his brow, his fingers rubbing with agitation at the stubble on his cheek. He looked about as happy as John felt, and John couldn't find the words to make any of it better.

"Will you go back to Mary?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John felt his stomach twist at the implication. "No," he said, tone clipped. "Even if she would take me back. I didn't leave Mary just so I could have sex with you."

Sherlock didn't answer but John could feel his eyes on his face. "I _left Mary_," he said with a sigh. "Because being friends with you isn't compatible with being in a meaningful long term committed relationship with someone else and...I realised that the life I have, when I'm with you, is the one that I want. This shit, nearly getting shot, seeing you jump out of a four-storey window, taking you to the A&E. That's what I'd miss. Not dinner parties with _Roger_. So. No, I won't be going back to Mary." He half laughed, it sounded bitter even to his own ears. "I suppose I'm going to have to find a woman who doesn't mind irregular sex and sharing my attention with an arrogant tosser."

Sherlock did not laugh. John heard him shift and glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. He was staring out the window.

"Are _you_ going to go back to Victor?" John asked tightly. "_If_ this is over?"

"Isn't it?" Sherlock asked coldly.

"You tell me." John could hear his own pulse, loud in his ears. He gripped the steering wheel so his hands wouldn't shake.

"You made it clear that I've behaved unforgiveably and we're 'still _friends_'." Sherlock's tone was bitter.

"You're the one who wants to sleep with someone else," muttered John, hurt coiling in his chest.

Sherlock glared at him. "And John Three Continents Watson has never felt sexual attraction to more than one person at the same time. How honourably monogamous of you John. Well done."

John looked at him askance, riled by Sherlock's mocking sarcasm, before looking back at the road. The fact that he had a point was even more annoying.

"I told you already John, I'm not going to fuck Victor Trevor."

"You probably should," he said tartly. "Get it out of your system. Help with closure. You never know, you might want to stay with him afterwards." He felt the poison on his tongue. "You liked kissing him. You might like sex with him too."

Sherlock was silent for a long moment and when he spoke, his voice was cold and shook with fury. "Why do you insist on believing I want anything to do with Victor Trevor? He is _nothing_ that I want."

The flood gates on John's temper finally opened and the words boiled out.

"You don't know? Really? It's pretty bloody obvious why you agreed to do this case in the first place," he snapped. "You're not over him yet. You wanted to see him, parade _me_ around, show him that you've moved on. Make him jealous." Sherlock didn't respond but John was on a roll so he kept going. "I just wish you'd told me about Victor before we went to his fucking house. I mean, for fuck's sake, Sherlock, he broke your heart, and you thought you didn't need to mention that? And then you fucking- he's all over you and then you drag me off to bed and ask me to fuck you, and _then_ you call out his name in the middle of it? I mean, bloody hell, how did you expect me to react? What did you expect me _think_?"

"What do you want me to say John? Yes. I wanted to see him again. I wanted to know that it didn't matter anymore. I wanted him to see that it didn't matter. If I'd told you earlier, would it have changed anything? I would have still- You would still be angry."

John stared straight ahead at the road. If everything had happened the same way? Would knowing about Victor from the start have made it better? Hearing Sherlock breathe another man's name at that most intimate moment?

"We could have talked about it," he said. "I don't know - you gave me space to work through things with Mary - if you needed time to-"

"No!" Sherlock nearly shouted. "I don't need _time_. I chose you, John. You. There was never any question of that- I meant what I said, John, you are important!" He hissed in frustration. "Yes, I still felt an attraction to Victor but that means nothing." He looked out the window. "You are more important than that." Sherlock was silent for a long moment. "I don't know what you want from me," he exclaimed, desperation in his voice. "You want honesty, you want me to share my _feelings_, but everything I say just makes this worse. You keep punishing me for something I haven't done!"

John swallowed, still feeling hurt, resentful and bitter but Sherlock's words had cut his argument from under him and he scrabbled at the flailing threads of his reasons for his anger, looking for some coherent meaning.

"It's not about whether you did anything!" he snapped. "It's - Even if you didn't mean it, you hurt me, Sherlock, and you've never once said apologised or acknowledged that. It's- " He sighed, defeated. "Maybe this is just too hard for us."

Sherlock looked at him and for a moment he looked stricken but John must have imagined it because he glared at him, cold and sneering. "Obviously. I have better things to do with my time than dance around trying to satisfy your boring, whiny, emotional demands." He flung himself over bodily in his seat to stare out the car window.

John exhaled and realised gripped the steering wheel. His hands shaking. "Fine. Good. Glad that's sorted then," he muttered.


	24. Making up afterwards

**Day 24: Making up afterwards**

John pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street and without a word Sherlock got out of the car and grabbed their luggage from the boot. He slammed both passenger door and car boot with excessive force and did not make eye contact as he started up the steps to the front door. John let out a breath and then drove off, he felt sick and empty.

He took the car back to the hire place and caught the tube back to Baker Street Station. The whole trip he kept thinking about the argument with Sherlock. Now that he'd said his piece, had rained his fury down on Sherlock's head, his anger had run its course and he was left feeling empty and with an uncomfortable sense of growing guilt.

He was haunted by Sherlock's stricken expression and the dawning realisation that he hadn't been very fair to Sherlock, not very fair at all.

He'd been so wrapped up in his own sense of righteous injury that he hadn't listened to what Sherlock had been trying to tell him. Sherlock who'd had heart broken at age nineteen and had shut down and tried to repress all his feelings ever since. Sherlock who didn't do relationships and didn't let himself get close to anyone, but had, for John, opened up, allowed himself to care. And then, when he was confronted with his past and had been trying to cope, instead of John being supportive, he'd been jealous and angry and assumed the worst and wouldn't listen to any of Sherlock's explanations.

Sherlock had told him, more than once how important he was, that he chose him above Victor, but all John had been able to think about had been his wounded pride. The last straw had been when John had ignored his desperate plea for forgiveness, for absolution, some way to atone, because if John was honest, that's what it had been, in Sherlock language, and Sherlock had been hurt by his rejection and responded in kind.

True, Sherlock hadn't been upfront about his history with Victor, and his communication about the whole sex thing had been utter rubbish, and he hadn't apologised once, but since when did Sherlock do any of those things? John knew Sherlock, better than anyone else, and still he'd expected him to behave differently, to somehow be stellar at interpersonal communication and able to appropriately navigate an emotionally charged situation. And then John had reacted badly when Sherlock didn't live up to this unrealistic ideal.

He was an idiot, they were both idiots, and somehow they'd ended up in a no-win stalemate. One of them would have to swallow their pride otherwise this was where they'd stay. The thought of ending this relationship with Sherlock, to pushing it all back down inside, made John feel sick.

He would have to fix it. He'd been waiting for Sherlock to apologise but when Sherlock had tried, in his own fashion, John had thrown it back in his face. It was up to him now.

With his heart in his throat, cursing himself for not taking a taxi, John waited impatiently for the train to stop and then practically bolted off it and of the tube station and towards 221B.

It was with a sense of relief that he heard the sound of the violin, loud and angry, from the street. At least Sherlock was still there.

He found him in the living room, he'd changed into his pyjamas and his violin was under his chin, face mirroring his music as he was caught up in the emotion of his playing, pain and fury pouring out in loud, strident sound.

John stood watching him for a long moment while he caught his breath. Then he drew himself up, spine straight, squared his jaw and shoulders and prepared to do what it took to win him back.

"Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock didn't stop playing but his eyes burned into John accusingly, his face taut and pale, nostrils flaring in anger and mouth pressed tight.

John deflated, he was ridiculous and adorable and looked exactly like an angry cat.

"Put the violin down," he said firmly.

Sherlock glared at him and played louder.

"Put it down or I will not be responsible for what happens to it."

Sherlock tilted his head, curiosity slightly overtaking his fury. He stopped his playing but did not lower his bow. "Threatening harmless musical instruments now, Doctor?"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock slowly lowered his violin, placing it and the bow carefully in the case. He straightened, a challenge in his expression.

"Come here you great idiot," gasped John and pulled him into his arms, burying his face in his chest. Sherlock was stiff and unresponsive for a long moment and then slowly he slid his arms back around John and, with a deep, tremulous sigh, folded into his embrace. He buried his face in John's shoulder and shuddered.

It felt like the day Sherlock had returned, after the shouting and after the punch, when John had held him and Sherlock had held him back. It felt so good, it made John want to weep.

"John, I'm sorry," Sherlock breathed. "I'm sorry."

John felt a bit trembly himself and he hugged Sherlock tighter. "Shut up," he said roughly. "Just, shut up. We're both idiots. I'm sorry too."

Sherlock slowly raised his head, wonder in his expression. John licked his lips and turned to meet him. Their noses brushed, then their foreheads and then very carefully, very hesitantly their mouths met. Gently, tentatively John moved his lips against Sherlock's, felt him shaking under his hands, trembling fingers reached to lightly cup John's face as if he was afraid to take and hold. John darted his tongue out against Sherlock's lips and he parted them on a sigh, his own tongue brushing against John's as their mouths grazed together. And then Sherlock groaned and deepened the kiss, pulling John flush against him and taking his mouth.

John gasped and clutched at Sherlock, needing to hold him, needing to be close, putting every apology, every forgiveness into this kiss. Want, urgent and sharp, bloomed low in his gut. He felt Sherlock's prick against him, hard now, and John bucked his hips closer in response. Sherlock groaned against his mouth and rocked into him. John drew back for a moment, pressing his forehead against Sherlock's.

"You're important to me too, Sherlock," he bit out. "You. Are. Important." He sucked in a breath. "I should have listened, I should have just talked to you. Please don't - I don't want this to end."

Sherlock gave a strangled cry and kissed John fiercely. "John, I don't either," he gasped before claiming his mouth again. He backed John towards his armchair, pushing him down and stradling his lap, clever lips and clever tongue taking his mouth.

John ran his hands over Sherlock's thighs and let himself be kissed thoroughly. Sherlock slid his hands down John's chest and unbuttoned his waistcoat. He moved his mouth down John's jaw, to his throat as pushed back the open waistcoat and jacket and untucked John's shirt, sliding his hand up and under. John sighed at the touch but then as Sherlock pressed closer, grinding his pyjama clad crotch against his own, he stilled, suddenly self-conscious, his confidence failing him as he remembered with humiliating clarity the last time they'd had sex - and Sherlock's assessment of it. He lifted his hands to Sherlock's arms, rubbing his biceps.

"Sherlock?" John said, voice rough. "Are- Tell me if you don't like anything. For God's sake."

Sherlock drew back, frowning. His eyes searched John's face and he inhaled sharply. "I hurt you," he breathed, as if he'd only just realised it. He touched John's cheek, his expression suddenly tight, pale. "_I broke us_." His voice was wrong, thick. Sherlock's fingers ghosted along John's jawline and there was such dismay, such regret, such _understanding_ in his expression that shockingly John felt a prickle behind his eyes. "I _did_," murmured Sherlock. "I did. That is...unacceptable. Forgive me, John." He kissed John's cheek. "Forgive me," he said, over and over as he kissed John's nose, his eyes, his cheeks, his forehead. "John, please."

John caught his hands, caught his mouth, kissed him intently before pulling back. "Yes," he said in a choked voice. "Of course. Always." He kissed Sherlock's face then, in return, his stupid chin, his ridiculous cheekbones, his nose, and that perfect, beautiful mouth. John sighed with the release of tension. This fight was nothing. Their second misunderstanding, their first fight as lovers. It was sure to get worse, but they had survived this, they could do this. Their friendship had survived it easily and had already survived far worse. "It's hardly the worst thing I've forgiven you for," he murmured. He huffed a laugh. "Making me watch you commit suicide and disappearing for three years is still in the top spot."

Sherlock's jaw twitched and he pulled John to him, holding him tightly for a long moment, his face buried in John's hair. He shook and John wrapped his arms around him and stroked his bowed back. "I could not do that now," Sherlock said, voice rough. "It was...difficult, before, I could not leave you now." He took a deep breath. "But I will always do what I need to save your life, John. Always."

John sighed and kissed Sherlock's shoulder, ran his hands down his back, feeling the muscles tense under his palms. "I know. I will too. Always."

Sherlock drew back finding John's mouth again and they kissed gently for a while until the heat began to grow again. Sherlock rolled his hips, his erection grinding against John's and causing a burst of pleasure across his groin. John hummed his approval against Sherlock's mouth and then Sherlock reached between them, shifting back slightly and undid John's trousers, releasing him from the confines of the fabric. John groaned at the contact of Sherlock's hand against his straining prick and then Sherlock pulled down his pyjamas and pressed his erection against John's. They held there, panting, the sensation, the intimacy of this connection rendering them breathless. Then Sherlock folded his large hand around them both and, head bowed against John's, he began to stroke. John whimpered, watching transfixed as the twin heads of their pricks appeared and were enveloped by Sherlock's fist. Pleasure, aching and fast built in his groin, spidering up his spine and through his hips.

"God, Sherlock," John gasped, gripping his shoulders. Sherlock's breath was ragged by his ear. John, pinned down as he was by Sherlock's weight, shook with the tension of his approaching orgasm. Sherlock dragged open mouthed kisses against John's throat and jaw and then tensed, stiffening as, with a low cry, he came. The sight was so erotic, seeing Sherlock's come pulsing out between them, feeling the wet heat on his own prick, the slick slide of Sherlock's fist, that it only took one more stroke and he too was grunting and clutching at Sherlock as his climax washed over him in a shockingly fast wave. He found Sherlock's mouth and kissed him desperately.

Sherlock drew back after a moment, stiffly unfolding from his crouch over John's lap. He stood and wiped his hand on his already soiled t-shirt, then pulled it off and tossed it to John to wipe at the pool of their mingled ejaculate on his belly. John leaned back in the arm chair, still unbuttoned and untucked, and looked up at Sherlock with a grin.

Sherlock's gaze roved over John filthy and admiring. He held out his hand. "Bed. I want to sleep and I want to sleep with you," he said.

John took his hand and stood. He tucked himself back into his pants but let his trousers crumple to the floor. Sherlock pushed his jacket off his shoulders and then his waistcoat before tugging off John's tie and unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it off his arms to toss onto the pile on the floor as well.

"I was afraid I wouldn't get to do that," he murmured, gliding his knuckles over John's chest. "You look good in a suit."

"Hm, so do you," said John closing his hand around one of Sherlock's bony hips. He slid his fingertips under the waistband of his pyjama trousers.

Sherlock smiled and ducked his head to press a chaste kiss to John's lips. "Shower. Bed. Sleep. Then I'll have you again."

John felt a glow of want at the suggestion and exhaled. "Sounds like a perfectly sound plan," he said. "As long as I can help wash your back."

Sherlock's nostrils flared and his pupils dilated. "Yes," he said and pulled John with him to the bathroom.


	25. Gazing into each others' eyes

**Warnings for this chapter: sex and a touch of gender stereotyping**

**Day 25: Gazing into each others' eyes**

When John woke it was late afternoon and he was tangled in Consulting Detective, naked Consulting Detective. Which was a pleasant place to be. He shifted and pressed a gentle kiss to Sherlock's bare shoulder and felt him suck in a deep breath and humm a sound of sleepy contentment. His groin was level with John's and it was a different but not unpleasant sensation to feel his sexual partner's flaccid penis thicken and swell against him. John smiled against Sherlock's shoulder, the things he did for this mad man. Somehow he'd become completely comfortable with male body parts other than his own. He did a quick mental check to see if suddenly he was attracted to men in general, but no, the idea of doing this with, say Lestrade, for example, still turned him off a bit. Not that there would have been a problem if suddenly he was happily bisexual, but he wasn't planning on shagging any other men anytime soon.

His mind wandered back to the Victor fiasco. He supposed they should talk about that. As much as he didn't want to hear about Sherlock being in love with someone else, it was probably the sort of thing he should discuss. John sighed, this was one area where he wished Sherlock was a woman, all John's girlfriends had been the ones to initiate these uncomfortable relationship talks. His natural inclination was to ignore something unless it was really a problem and then either shout or fix it.

As Sherlock seemed perfectly happy to simply cuddle him and get hard, however, John wondered if maybe they could just leave it as is. After all, they had both apologised, both understood, pretty much, where the other was coming from. What was there to talk about?

Sherlock interrupted his musing by rolling onto his back and pulling John on top of him. John lifted himself up on his forearms.

"Hello," he said.

Sherlock blinked blearily up at him, his gorgeous mouth curling up at one side into a sleepy smile. "Hello," he said in a deep rumble that sent sparks skittering down John's spine and made his own cock, already quite firm, harden considerably.

"You do my head in, you know that?" John grinned.

Sherlock's half smile grew into a proper beam and he wiggled under John and wrapped his long legs around John's waist. The position was the same as when he'd tried buggering Sherlock, and John tensed slightly but then Sherlock wiggled again and John swore as their erections rubbed together. Sherlock groaned with pleasure and rolled his hips under John. Blue-green eyes locked on John's, pinning him with their intensity.

"These _feelings_ are maddening, you confuse me, John," he growled. "But I find I cannot do without you. You focus me. Centre me. You are a fixed point when my mind is in chaos."

John sucked in a breath and claimed Sherlock's mouth, the unexpectedly romantic statement undoing him. He moved against him, touching every inch, holding him down and being wrapped in his limbs. He moved his mouth over his jaw, his elegant throat, coaxing whimpers and deep groans from his chest.

"God, I love you," he breathed, and froze as he realised he'd said the words aloud. Apprehension prickled over his skin. Worse, Sherlock had stilled too, his hands tight about John's upper arms. John could feel his pulse hammering against his cheek, his heart beating against his own chest, his own pounding heart. He felt his face flood with heat and he cleared his throat nervously. And then with a surge, Sherlock threw him over onto his back and loomed over him, staring down at him with wild eyes before fiercely, desperately taking John's mouth in a kiss.

He drew back, searching John's eyes, his mouth twisting with emotion. "John," he breathed and kissed him again, gently this time, drawing down his jaw, his throat and then his body with lips and tongue and teeth. John was shaking by the time Sherlock reached his groin, nuzzling at the soft skin between cock and thigh, and when he finally took him in his mouth he was broken.

"Ah, bloody hell, perfect, that's perfect, yeah, god, your mouth, you're perfect, love you, love you, you're perfect, fucking hell, yes, oh god, Sherlock, please-" he whimpered, endearments and curses and confessions spilling from his lips as Sherlock painstakingly drew him towards orgasm. He was wrecked by the time he came, trembling and whimpering, his world narrowed to Sherlock and Sherlock's mouth, his climax racking his body, a blistering wave of pleasure that blanked his vision and wrenched a loud shout from his chest with its intensity. He lay gasping for a long moment afterwards, felt, rather than saw, Sherlock shift up the bed and kiss his lips gently, and nearly missed the soft words, murmured against his cheek.

"My John, my love."

Groggily he dragged a kiss across Sherlock's mouth and reached between them to find his cock, hot and hard. He stroked clumsily until Sherlock folded his hand over his and together they brought him to completion, his mouth wet and open against John's temple, a soft cry on his lips.

John collapsed against him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and held him close, dozing off to sleep with the feeling of Sherlock's fingertips stroking his back gently, his lips pressed against his forehead.

When he woke next, Sherlock wasn't there, but there was a cup of tea by his side of the bed. John stretched lazily and grinned.

* * *

It was good, now. Sherlock was surprisingly attentive in his affection, seeming to almost crave intimacy - incidental touches, folding John into his arms, kisses on the top of his head, dragging him into passionate embraces. Sex. Lots of sex. John wasn't about to argue, it was amazing, how much _better_ things were when he could kiss Sherlock instead of glaring at him, push him onto the armchair and snog him when he was bored and being obnoxious, crowd him up against the door when he was amazing.

There were comments at the clinic about his constant good mood, his distracted grin, the obvious improvement in his love life.

Somehow they'd ended up sleeping most nights in Sherlock's bed, usually because most nights they fucked there, but there'd also been a few occasions where they'd just gone to bed there together, crashed out, holding each other after a long night or just a cosy evening after a spectacular afternoon orgasm.

It was intimate and affectionate and John sometimes found himself looking at Sherlock and wondering how he had hidden this need for love for so long.

As much as they had become comfortable with each others' bodies, the one thing they didn't do was try anal sex again. John was not going to suggest a second go, not after the way the last time turned out, and he wasn't yet comfortable with the idea of having anything going up his own arse other than a proctologist's finger. He definitely wasn't going to be the one to suggest experimentation either way. He noticed Sherlock _had_ started getting exploratory around that region, especially doing blow jobs, licking down John's perineum, flicking his tongue towards his hole. It did feel nice, but also a bit much, and John wouldn't ask for more and he didn't reciprocate. John decided to just put it out of his mind, what they did was more than satisfying, but it was a bit hard when Sherlock had him trapped between his thighs, those long legs wrapped around his hips, and he still felt a rush of humiliation along with the memory of intense pleasure.

Then one afternoon John was on his knees and Sherlock was on his back when suddenly he reached down, grabbed John's hand and took it southwards, pressing it against his hole.

John stilled and looked up at Sherlock, found him starting back with an intent expression, something careful lurking there. John let his cock fall from his mouth with a plop.

"Are you-" he stopped, of course Sherlock was sure - of what, though, that was the question. "What do you want?" he asked instead. "You've got to be clear on this Sherlock. I'm not doing something you don't like."

"Your fingers," said Sherlock.

John took a breath then fetched the lube from the bedside table and squeezed a liberal amount onto his hand, smearing the viscous fluid over his fingers. He bent his head back to Sherlock's cock and began to finger him as he sucked, resolutely trying to ignore the thought of taking this further. He found Sherlock's prostate easily and had reduced him to a trembling, quivering mess by the time he came, pulsing into John's mouth and around two of his fingers. John went to the bathroom straight after to spit and wash his hands. He came back to find Sherlock lying on his back with his forearm over his eyes, legs splayed decadently.

He climbed onto the bed and began to stroke himself, enjoying the sight of his partner well and truly undone. Sherlock lifted up arm and watched John with darkened eyes.

"You can fuck me," he said.

"Oh shit," John groaned and shut his eyes, imagining just that as he stroked a couple more times and tensed and jerked, his come spilling onto sheets between Sherlock's legs. He collapsed next to Sherlock, spent and with a touch of embarassment. In the heat of the moment the fantasy had been great but now, sated, the idea made him uncomfortable with remembered hurt and humiliation and rather like he'd revealed too much.

Maybe he had, because the next time they were having sex, Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist.

"You can have me, John," he gasped, tilting his arse up against his groin.

John shied away from the thought, and kissed him gently. "This is fine," he said and slid down his body to suck his cock.

The time after _that_, however, Sherlock had been looking into his eyes when he'd suggested it and when John tried to look away he forced him to meet his eyes, searching John's face with his keen gaze.

"You don't want to," he accused.

John flushed. "I don't need to do it and you don't like it. It's fine. The rest is great, it's more than enough." Did they have to have this conversation now? His erection flagged.

"I thought you were being considerate of my feelings but you actually don't want to," Sherlock said, frowning. "You liked it the first time."

John sighed and rolled off him. They _were_ going to have this conversation now. Right. "And then you called out Victor's name half way through and told me you hated it." He rubbed Sherlock's arm soothingly, trying to dull the sting in his words. He really didn't want to get into an argument about it.

Sherlock was quiet, something suspiciously like guilt settling in his expression. "I didn't say I hated it, I said I didn't _like_ it." He sighed and flopped back on the pillow. "It was overwhelming. Too much sensation. Emotionally and physically."

"And what's going to be any different? I mean. It's not worth- You don't have to try again."

Sherlock made an exasperated sound. "It felt good, John. Very good, that was the problem. And you looked- I- Things are different now. I know how you feel."

John blushed but didn't say anything. The idea, while interesting, still seemed too risky, too fraught. He wasn't sure he was willing to expose himself like that.

Sherlock suddenly rolled onto his feet and got up, marching off to the bathroom.

John shut his eyes with a sigh. That didn't go well.

He heard the sound of water running and then silence and he hoped maybe Sherlock had just gone for a pee. The door opened and Sherlock marched in again, still completely nude and climbed back onto the bed. He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed the lube and then squeezed a generous dollop onto his fingers. With an imperious look towards John, he knelt with his thighs apart and reached behind himself, long fingers slipping between his buttocks.

"Feel free to join in," he said, his gaze flickering over John, his arm making tantalising movements behind his back. John watched as Sherlock's cheeks flushed, his cock thickened and his lips parted wetly, his gaze a pure challenge.

Lust began to coil in the pit of John's belly. He licked his lips and sat up. Sherlock made a small whimper and arched his back, cock jutting obscenely as he fucked back onto his own hand. John leaned forward and bent his mouth to Sherlock's prick, licking a long stripe along the underside.

Sherlock groaned.

The lube was right near John's hand so he squirted a dollop on his hand and slicked his cock. He sat back against the pillows and began to stroke, fixing his gaze on Sherlock's darkened one.

"Use this, if you want to," he said. He thought briefly of a condom and discarded the concept immediately.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed for a moment and he removed his fingers, wiping them on the sheet and then, with regal air, he straddled John's hips. He reached between them, holding John's cock in place as he positioned it at his slick hole. Holding John's gaze with a look of defiance, he slowly, carefully eased down. John held himself still, feeling the resistance and then the give as Sherlock's muscles relaxed and he slid down until John was completely sheathed. He gasped in pleasure, engulfed by tight, slick heat. Sherlock held still for a long moment, body shaking, breathing deeply through his nose as he adjusted to the intrusion.

John reached for his hand, holding it and rubbed Sherlock's thigh soothingly with his other hand. "Shh, that's it. You're magnificent. God you're beautiful. Sherlock, my love," he breathed.

Sherlock shuddered and bowed his head before leaning forward over John, leaking cock dragging against his stomach. He grazed his lips over John's in an open-mouthed kiss and began to move. His rode John slowly, pausing every now and then, shaking and breathing deeply, kissing John, focusing beautiful glazed eyes on his, just for a moment, before beginning his steady rise and fall again.

It felt amazing, better than he remembered. Sherlock was a picture of pure eroticism, his features lost in lust, body flushed and taut, riding John's cock, intense focus turned inwards. John concentrated on breathing, on rubbing his hands soothingly along Sherlock's thighs, on keeping up a steady stream of encouragement and endearments, of keeping himself still beneath this shatteringly good onslaught. He could feel his orgasm approaching, and he bit his lip and gripped Sherlock's thighs tightly.

Sherlock groaned. "Touch me, John," he gasped.

John reached for Sherlock's erection, red and achingly hard, and closed his palm around it. He stroked twice and then Sherlock tensed.

"_John_," he cried, muscles straining, back bowed, as he shuddered into orgasm, his come pulsing over John's hand. His body clenched around John in an unbearably tight rhythm, John gasped and bucked up twice into Sherlock's welcoming heat before he too was coming, throbbing deep inside Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock sank onto him, still quivering with the last remnants of orgasm and John smoothed his hair from his brow and kissed his forehead.

"That was amazing. You are amazing."

Sherlock found his mouth and kissed him. He drew back resting his cheek against John's. "John," he breathed. "My John, that was perfect, my John."

John held him, his throat thick. "I love you, fucking hell, I love you," he cried.

Sherlock buried his face in the crook of John's neck, and if it got a bit damp there, John didn't mention. Finally Sherlock lifted his face to take a gasping breath, staring at John in wonder.

"Marry me, John," he declared.

John stared at him and for the life of him couldn't think why not. He started to laugh. "Yeah, all right, I will," he said and fiercely, stupidly happy, he kissed Sherlock hard.


	26. Getting married

**Day 26: Getting married**

As much as John was a bit chuffed with Sherlock's ridiculously impulsive post-coital proposal, and as much as he wasn't kidding when he'd said yes, he really didn't think much more about it. It was something they'd do, yeah, eventually. It was just nice understanding to have, to know that's how much they each meant to the other.

He really should have paid more attention, but in his defence, Sherlock hadn't mentioned it again. After John had said yes and kissed him, they'd dozed a bit, and then John had made Sherlock lie still while he checked his arse to make sure he hadn't done any damage, which led to Sherlock getting his second orgasm of the evening courtesy of John's fingers. John didn't play 'Doctor' often and it always left him feeling slightly shamefaced afterwards, so he needed to be reassured by Sherlock which resulted in John getting _his_ second orgasm of the evening. And then they'd had a shower and then Sherlock had sauntered off to make tea in the nude.

And no more mention was made of marriage until sixteen days later when Mrs Hudson popped up to the flat. She was dressed very smartly and was beaming from ear to ear.

"Ready boys?" she asked.

John looked up from where he was reading the paper on the sofa. "Ready for what?"

Mrs Hudson gave a put upon sigh. "John, you and your jokes. Really. It's a bit poor taste."

Sherlock came out of the bathroom then, dressed in his tuxedo, doing up his shirt cuffs. "Your turn, John, do hurry up. We have to leave in fifteen minutes."

John looked between them. "No seriously. What's going on?"

Sherlock frowned. "We're getting married."

"Excuse me?"

"I asked you sixteen days ago. You said' yes'," Sherlock said.

John blinked at him. "Yes. Yes, I did," he said carefully. "I don't recall us agreeing to get married today though."

"Well we can't have done it any sooner, John, we had to give sixteen days notice to the register office."

John frowned. "Hang on, don't I have to sign something or other for that?"

Sherlock waved that away. "Tedious, I had Mycroft sort out the paperwork. He'd have invited himself along anyway as soon as he got wind of the forms, he might as well have done something to earn an invitation."

John exhaled. "Right. So. We are getting married today." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock sighed. "Oh don't tell me you're getting cold feet. Honestly John."

"I had cold feet before my wedding," put in Mrs Hudson.

"Not helping, Mrs Hudson," snapped Sherlock.

"Sorry. I'll wait downstairs will I? No hanky panky though, not before the wedding."

"Right. Thanks for that Mrs Hudson," said John, getting to his feet. He turned on Sherlock. "Sherlock! When you asked me - I thought - we'd pick a date some time later, maybe in a year or so. Plan a wedding together, not-" He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache forming as he tried to think in Sherlock. He looked up. "I didn't know you meant straight away."

Sherlock was frowning. "You said 'yes'," he said again, repeating himself which wasn't a good sign. "Of course I meant straight away. Why would we wait?"

John took a breath. "It's just a bit quick, isn't it? I mean we've only been in a relationship for two months." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "It's not sensible to get married so soon."

"Four years, 8 months," corrected Sherlock. "And since when has our relationship been sensible John? I solve crimes and you shoot people."

John stared at him for a long moment and then he laughed because fuck if he wasn't right. He threw his hands in the air. "Fine, all right, fine. Let's get married today."

* * *

A black Limosine was waiting for them when they went downstairs. Mrs Hudson was already seated next to Sherlock's brother.

"A limo," said John as he climbed in. "Of course."

"John," said Mycroft, far too smug for his own good. "Congratulations."

John cleared his throat. "Ah, thanks, Mycroft." Sherlock slid in next to him and the limo driver shut the door after him.

"Little Brother. Well done."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So," said John, still irritated, even if he had decided to go along with this madness. "Plans?"

"Register office," supplied Sherlock. "Mycroft and Mrs Hudson will be the witnesses."

"Any of our friends know?"

"What friends?"

John frowned. "Lestrade, Molly, Mike, the people I work with - _my sister_."

"No. I'll send a text afterwards."

"A text. Perfect." There may have been some sarcasm in John's tone.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Ah...I suspected my brother's uh, _plans_, may not have been fully communicated to you, Doctor Watson. I took the liberty of contacting a selection of your friends and family to attend a small reception afterwards." He laughed lightly. "Acting in my capacity as Sherlock's best man, of course."

John rounded on Sherlock. "What about my best man? Oi, what about my buck's night?" John frowned, was that why Lestrade had called about a pint last night? John had fobbed him off in favour of sodomising Sherlock. No wonder Greg had sounded put out, not that John had told him the real reason why he was insisting on having a night in.

Sherlock was looking sulky. "He's not my best man. I'm marrying my best man. He's a witness. Mrs Hudson is a witness." He glared at everyone in general. "Why do there have to be people there? This is about _us_. As long as you're there, that's all that matters."

John looked at him, pouty, petulant, sulky and very fuckably gorgeous in a charcoal grey tux, complete with the twin of the corsage John was wearing, that had somehow appeared in the fridge in the last few hours. Sherlock had voluntarily contacted Mycroft, got their suits sorted and organised the whole thing, by himself. He glanced at John and then looked away, an imperious expression plastered across his face because _he cared_ about this, and he didn't want John to see.

This was a text book case of Sherlock's impetuousness, his thoughtlessness, the way he steamrolled over John's preferences, railroaded him into situations without providing any information, failed to consult with him and generally went off and did whatever the fuck that genius brain of his came up with. It was text book, but John knew this about Sherlock already, and it was what John had signed up for when he chose him. He might as well start the way he knew he was going to continue.

"Two witnesses. You and me? Just another case, then really, isn't it?" he said with a laugh. He put his hand on Sherlock's knee. "All right. Today. Let's get married, today."

Sherlock exhaled, his mask replaced by sheer relief. He closed his hand over John's and his face creased into a proper, pleased smile.

"Well," smirked Mycroft. "I confess I had this eventuality in mind when I had the laws changed. You can thank me later."

* * *

It was the simplest most efficient wedding John had ever been to. Paperwork was seen to, the simple registry vows were exchanged, he promised to take Sherlock as his lawfully wedded husband and Sherlock promised to take him. And then Mycroft pulled a ring box from his pocket. It contained a set of two platinum rings and Sherlock took the smaller.

"My John, I give you this ring," said Sherlock. "As a symbol of our marriage and as a token of my love," and slid it onto John's finger. "I am yours for the rest of my life."

John looked at the ring, he looked at the man who had given it to him and felt his heart glow. He took the other ring from the box.

"Sherlock, you brilliant, beautiful man, I give you this ring, as a symbol of our marriage and as a token of my love." As he slide the ring onto Sherlock's finger he felt a surge of possessive affection and pride. Everything was complete. "I am yours too, for the rest of my life."

Sherlock's mercurial eyes were filled with emotion as he leaned down and met John in a chaste but purposeful kiss. John closed his left hand over Sherlock's left and lifted both to his heart.

Sherlock drew back, looking down at him.

"Sentiment," said John with a trembly smile.

Sherlock's mouth was also a little bit wobbly. "Yes, sentiment," he said and pulled John close against his chest.

* * *

Mycroft's car took them all to a hotel reception room where their friends and family were waiting to congratulate them. Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, Harry Watson, John's old army nurse, Bill Murray, the staff from John's clinic, as well as Angelo and a tall stern faced man John had never met, all clapped as they entered the room.

"Your doing, Mycroft?" John asked as Sherlock was being hugged by Angelo and Mrs Hudson simultaneously.

"Ah, yes, I confess, I did have a hand in it, although my assistant did the actual work."

John smiled. "Of course. Thank you. It's - very good of you."

"You've been very good for my brother, John," said Mycroft. "Your partnership is worth celebrating." He cleared his throat and pulled an envelope from inside his jacket. "A small wedding gift."

John looked between him and the envelope and then opened it, seeing the travel agents logo. "A holiday?"

"Honeymoon. I've had the place vetted by my people, completely secure. I trust you will enjoy a chance to feel some sun again, John."

John glanced at him. "Yes. I will. Thank you, Mycroft. I appreciate it. I'm sure Sherlock will too."

He looked over to where Sherlock was shaking Lestrade's hand. Mycroft gestured towards them and inclined his head. John nodded and walked over to join his husband. Lestrade grasped his hand and shook it vigorously.

"Congratulations you sly bugger. Fucked if I even knew you too were together, I mean, there's been rumours- but suddenly you're getting married?" the DI declared.

John cleared his throat. It was true, they hadn't bothered making an announcement that they were sleeping together now, and John supposed they'd never really engaged in any PDAs at a crime scene, but it wasn't exactly as if they'd been hiding it.

"Lestrade with deductive skills like that no wonder you need me," murmured Sherlock. Greg rolled his eyes.

"Sorry about that, I didn't know we were getting married today until this morning. Wish I'd gone for that drink last night now," said John.

"Should have known something like that would happen with this bastard," Greg said, clapping Sherlock on the arm.

John grinned. "Oi, that's my husband you're talking about."

Sherlock smiled at him and the warmth inside John's chest flared a bit.

The tall, severe looking stranger approached.

"Sherlock Holmes, congratulations," he said, shaking his hand. He turned to John, extending his hand "You must be the lucky man."

"Erik, this is John. My husband," said Sherlock, and he looked so proud about it, that it made John ache. "John, this is Erik Hastings, my minder while I was away." Ah, this was the Hastings, Sherlock had mentioned in many of his stories about while he was away, one of Mycroft's people. John shook his hand firmly.

"Finally a face to the name," John said. "I owe you a debt of gratitude for keeping this silly sod safe."

"It was a good day when Sherlock was able to come out of hiding," said Erik. "If I had to hear your name one more time Doctor Watson I would have defected - always John this, John that." He grinned, his stern face lightening for a brief moment and he clapped Sherlock on the upper arm. "I am glad he has you now."

There was congratulations, speeches, champagne, food, cake and music and Sherlock danced with John. And then Mycroft came and discreetly told them that their flight was in three hours so they'd best pop into the car now. Their luggage had already been packed for them. Of course.

"Now?" John asked, and pulled out the enveloped Mycroft had given him. Sure enough their plane left in three hours. To the Caribbean.

Sherlock frowned at John. "What flight?"

"Honeymoon, Sherlock," said John. "Where I will fuck your brains out five times a day, as dictated by tradition."

He caught John's eye and smirked and John grinned back and turned back to the itinery.

"Oh you're fucking kidding me," he declared as he read their destination.

"Problem?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock snatched the intinery from John's fingers, scanning it quickly. "Saint Barthelemy Island," he said flatly. "St. Barts."

"Your sense of humour is a bit off, Mycroft, you know that?" John tugged the itinery back.

"St. Barts is very exclusive and a well recognised destination for those, with, ah, taste," said Mycroft primly. "It's popular among the very rich, so if you get bored you can always spend your time deducing their various sins. I'm sure it will keep you occupied if Doctor Watson grows tired and only manages to 'fuck your brains out' a mere four times a day."

"We're not going," declared Sherlock.

"Hang on," said John. "I didn't say I didn't want to go - five star private villa, sun, sand- wait this says _first class_? We're flying first class?"

Mycroft smirked at Sherlock. "I gather this is acceptable after all."

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft sighed. "It's a present, Sherlock. To my baby brother and his new husband because I am exceedingly pleased that someone else is going to be responsible for you from now on."

"And?"

"And if you see my dear friend Vincent Cresswell, do send my love."

Sherlock and his brother engaged in a staring match for a full minute, then Sherlock glanced at John.

"First class," said John. "_Private_ villa."

"Fine! We'll go." He caught John's laden meaning and looked at him slyly. "We do have to consummate our marriage after all and I want you to be _loud_."

"Quite right," agreed John piously. "We must think of Mrs Hudson's nerves. Thank you Mycroft."


	27. On one of their birthdays

**Day 27: On one of their birthdays**

"Happy Birthday Mr Sigerson," said the woman at the airport check in counter.

John glanced at Sherlock. Glanced at his passport, then sighed. Right.

"Thank you," said Sherlock and his smile was surprisingly sincere. "I've just been married today too. We're on our honeymoon." He tugged John close.

"Well congratulations Mr Sigerson, and Mr Wilson, I hope you have a lovely time," she said handing them both back their passports. John quickly opened his. He hadn't checked it on the way here - right. Pseudonym for him too. Was that really necessary?

"Well, birthday boy," he said a touch sarcastically as they walked away from the counter. "Let's go use this expensive first class lounge your brother's paid for and have a celebratory drink."


	28. Doing something ridiculous

**Warnings for this chapter:**Sexual scene.

**Day 28: Doing something ridiculous**

John had never flown first class, so for the first hour of the flight was spent exploring all the options from the fold-out bed to the free drinks before he settled back to relax and enjoy a comparatively comfortable eight hour flight to the Caribbean.

He was just choosing a movie when Sherlock slid his hand along his thigh. "There's a shower spa in first on this airline," he said casually.

"Oh?" said John.

"Rather spacious, as far as airline toilets go. Would probably fit two."

John blinked and raised his eyebrows. "You're joking right?"

"Not at all." He wriggled his eye brows suggestively and smirked.

John sniggered. "The mile high club? You're serious?"

"Could be dangerous."

"Oh shut up," said John, but he licked his lips, the thought of having Sherlock in the loo on a plane, where they could be caught and anyone with any sense would know what they were up to- yeah, starting to be appealing. "All right," he said.

"Give me a minute's head start," said Sherlock and slipped out of his seat.

John swallowed. God, they were really going to do this. He fluffed around with his seat, changing settings on his tv before finally he judged the coast was clear and discreetly slipped up the aisle to where Sherlock had disappeared.

He tapped the door and Sherlock slid it open, pulling him inside. It was true, it was larger than normal airline toilets. There was actually a shower, as well as a full vanity and loo.

Sherlock slid the lock across and pulled him into a kiss, pressing a tube of lube into his hand. "I want you inside me," he said.

The idea was appealing but they'd only done that last night and John was always conscious of being careful when it came to that kind of intercourse. "You sure you can handle another round so soon?"

Sherlock grabbed John's arse pulled him flush against him. "Very." He leaned in and rumbled against John's ear. "Fuck me, John. Quick and dirty."

John flipped him around and pushed him against the vanity sink. Sherlock had discarded his suit coat and his belt and fly were already undone. John tugged his trousers down only to stop with a groan. Sherlock was wearing the red and black lacey satiny knickers from Brighton, the flimsy material stretched across his opulent arse.

"Oh God," John breathed and sank to his knees, mouthing at his satin and lace covered arse. "You have no idea how hot you look. When we get to the hotel I'm going to pull these off with my teeth and make you come down my throat." He eased the knickers down slowly, revealing inch by inch of Sherlock's pale, plump buttocks, mouthing love bites as he went until his whole arse was exposed. He slid a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks, and found he had already prepped himself. John swore.

"Hurry up, John," hissed Sherlock pressing back onto his finger.

John scrambled to his feet, tugging his own trousers undone. He quickly slicked his cock, bringing it to full hardness with a couple of strokes and pushed Sherlock forward, parting his arse cheeks with one hand as he guided the head of his prick into his waiting hole.

He pushed Sherlock down and pulled his hips back as he thrust in. Sherlock's groan was strangled as John slid home. He could see both of them reflected in the mirror, Sherlock's face, caught in the shock of pleasure.

"Look at you," he breathed. "You look good like this, bent over with my cock up your arse."

Sherlock whimpered a little and then grimaced. "Move John," he hissed and thrust back.

John gripped his hips and obeyed. He fucked into Sherlock, quick and dirty as instructed, aiming for his prostate with each thrust and reaching around to fondle his turgid cock and tightening balls, eyes locked with Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. It was erotic, watching this pure pornography of their own making, a feedback loop of visual and physical stimulation. The urgency and elicit nature of the location added to the excitement and soon John was lost in the tightening coil of his orgasm, awash with pleasure and the need for more until finally he fell, stiffening against Sherlock and jerking into him as his orgasm over took him. He felt Sherlock's hand close over his about his cock and tug hard until he too was coming, his arse pulsing about John's cock, still buried deep inside. John fell against Sherlock's back for a moment, panting. He glanced up and caught Sherlock's eyes in the mirror again and they both started to snigger.

"How old are we?" John gasped. "Come on." He reached over and grabbed some tissues and then eased out, cleaning himself and Sherlock up, then tucking himself away. Sherlock was still leaning against the sink, completely undone.

"I'll shower," he said, stepping out of the sinful knickers and his trousers. "You go back."

John nodded and brushed past him in the confined space to splash some water on his face. It was bloody obvious what had just gone on. He looked down and grabbed some more tissues to clean up the evidence of Sherlock's orgasm from the front of the vanity.

"Right, see you back at our seats," John said.

Sherlock was looking deliciously debauched in just his shirt and waistcoat, hair damp with sweat, and bare from the waist down. He grabbed John's arm and pulled him close for a fierce kiss. "That was exceptional, husband of mine," he said.

John shut his eyes. "Mm, I like the sound of that; husband of mine."

Sherlock hummed with contentment and then gave John a slap on the arse. "Run along then," he ordered.

John nipped him on the lip, and then, smoothing his jacket self consciously, let himself out of the bathroom.

No one seemed to notice as he returned to his seat, but later, when Sherlock had returned, damp from the shower, one of the air hosties, a trim looking young man with a lot of product in his hair, gave them a knowing wink as he asked if they needed any refreshments.

John blushed and managed to order a whisky but Sherlock was perfectly at ease as he requested a tonic water. Sherlock shifted in his seat.

"All right?" John asked.

"Pleasantly sore, it's fine," he murmured.

He cleared his throat and dropped something onto John's lap. He looked down and saw Sherlock's knickers bunched up on his lap. He quickly tucked them into his pocket. Sherlock smirked.

"Put them on, the next time you go to the toilet," he said. "I want to take them off you when we get to the hotel."

John shut his eyes and took a deep breath, his libido already responding to the suggestion despite their recent activities. "Yeah, all right," he said. He risked a look at Sherlock. "What have I gotten myself into?"

"Marriage, John," said Sherlock. "Joint marital property, what's mine is now yours."

"We'd better not ever get a divorce then, sorting out custody of the knickers would be a nightmare."

Sherlock's mouth tilted up at the corner. "You would wear them Monday through Wednesday and every second Thursday and I'd have them the rest of the week."

"But who would have them for Christmas and birthdays?"

"You're right, it would be a nightmare. You'd best not leave me then," said Sherlock.

John smiled at him fondly. "I don't intend to."

Sherlock's smile had slipped and his expression was suddenly serious. "Good," he said. "It would be the end of me."

John swallowed and looked away, because not only did he know Sherlock meant it, but John felt the same way too.


	29. Doing something sweet

**Warnings:** It's pretty much porn and schmoop from here on in. Mature content.

**Day 29: Doing something sweet**

It was late by the time they reached their accommodation in St. Barts.

"Well, this is nice," said John, looking around the main room of their villa. "Very nice."

Sherlock sighed and threw himself onto the sofa. "It will do."

John checked out the bathroom, bedroom and kitchen and opened all the cupboards and wardrobes.

He opened the fridge. It was full of food. "Mycroft's been busy," he said. There was a brochure on the table with catering service information. John leafed through that, then wandered over to the sliding door leading to the back deck. He flicked on a few light switches and the deck was lit with tasteful floodlights, illuminating a large infinity pool overlooking the Caribbean Sea. Far out in the dark he could see the lights of boats. "Oh my God, look at this - our own pool. Sherlock, look at this view."

He heard Sherlock sniff. "Dark," he pronounced. "John."

"Hm?" John asked. He could see the moon, nearly full, floating above some clouds on the horizon.

"There's a different view I'm interested in," Sherlock said.

John turned around. Sherlock was still on the sofa, but somehow he'd lost his trousers and he lounged back, legs splayed, with one hand languidly stroking his erection.

John grinned. "You're fucking insatiable."

"Hm and you're fucking edible," said Sherlock with a slow smirk. There was something about the way Sherlock swore, rolling the coarse words off his tongue as if he were tasting each syllable that just did it for John. "Clothes. Off. Now. I want to see you in those knickers."

John's libido had obviously decided that demanding Sherlock worked for him, or maybe it was the thought of those ridiculous pants he'd been wearing for the past six hours, or maybe it was just that Sherlock had parted his luscious lips and was looking at him with his best come hither expression, but his mouth went dry and a frisson of lust curled through his loins. He gave Sherlock a heated look and then with deliberate slowness started to undress. He dropped his suit jacket over a chair, unbuttoned his waistcoat and threw it in the same direction. Then he undid his tie, his shirt cuffs, his shirt buttons before slipping it off his shoulders. He toed off his shoes, risking a glance at Sherlock, edified to discover he was watching with rapt attention, then pulled off his socks. John very slowly unbuckled his belt, slid it all the way through the belt loops and then doubled it in his hands and gave it a snap before tossing it on the floor. Sherlock's breath caught and John's hands fell to his fly, flicking open the button and then drawing down the zip to give a peek of the knickers. Then, with a shimmy he pushed his trousers down and let them pool around his ankles. He stepped out and put his hands on his hips.

"Well?" he said. He turned in a slow circle, then stopped facing Sherlock with a challenging look.

Sherlock's eyes were very dark and he was very hard. He lifted one finger and beckoned. John raised an eyebrow but walked forward until he was standing between Sherlock's splayed knees.

"Magnficient," Sherlock said, his deep voice dropping to curl through John's limbs.

Sherlock reached up and slid both hands over John's satin clad hips, running them to cup his buttocks, then smooth around to the front where John's erection was doing terrible things to the line of the underwear. He ran a palm over John's cock and then hooked his two forefingers in the waistband of the knickers. Sherlock settled back on the couch and tugged John closer. John obeyed, climbing onto the sofa onto his knees, his crotch practically in Sherlock's face. Sherlock bent his head and mouthed hotly at John's erection through the satin and lace. John groaned and ran his hand through Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock looked up at him with darkened eyes and licked a stripe up John's cock. "I want you to use me, John," he breathed.

John bit back a moan and yanked down the front of the knickers, freeing his straining prick from the tight fabric. He cupped Sherlock's cheek in one hand and guided his cock between Sherlock's lips.

He moved carefully with shallow thrusts into Sherlock's wicked mouth, watching the way his cheeks hollowed, his eye lashes fluttered. Sherlock's fingers dug into his hips, guiding him in and out.

"So gorgeous," he breathed. He sighed deeply, it was lovely and he could do this all evening, but it _was_ going to take all evening at this rate, and it couldn't be comfortable for Sherlock. Finally with regret he pulled out. Sherlock looked up at him, blinking in confusion.

"Not good?"

"No, no, so good, you're so good, Sherlock," John breathed, smoothing his hair. "I could do that all night, but it's going to take too long. Come on, bed. Let's get comfortable."

He went to get up but Sherlock grabbed his wrist, tugging him back. "I want to, John, I'm yours."

John bent down and caught his mouth, kissing him fondly before pulling back. "It's our wedding night, Sherlock, it should be mutual. Let me do some work too."

He got off Sherlock's lap and held out his hand to help him up, then led him to the bedroom.

The villa was quite for some time, punctuated every now and then by a soft moan or a slick sucking noise.

"Oh!" exclaimed Sherlock suddenly. "_Sixty-nine_, now I understand."

It took John a little while before he could stop giggling enough to get back to it.

* * *

Later that evening or maybe the evening before, John still hadn't worked out the time zones properly, (he thought they were a day behind), he stood on the deck of their villa, looking out at the Caribbean Sea, smooth and calm under the light of a heavy waxing moon.

He heard the door open and Sherlock came up behind him, pressing his bare chest along John's back and wrapping his arms loosely about his middle before pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

"You can't sleep," Sherlock murmured.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," John said.

"No, it's fine," Sherlock tucked his chin over John's shoulder.

John sighed and leaned back against him. "You know, I had no idea when I woke up this morning that by the end of the day I'd be an old married man with a husband and women's knickers."

Sherlock's chuckle was a wonderful rumble against his ear. "Are you very upset I didn't talk to you about the wedding?"

John turned his head to try and see him. "Is that an apology, Sherlock Holmes?"

"No, because I'm not sorry you're my husband now. I _might_ be sorry about upsetting you."

John sighed and shook his head. "Apology accepted." He squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I was a _bit_ upset, to be honest, but then I realised that this is you, who you are, so either I accepted it or I got out then and there. I didn't want to get out. I _can't_ get out. I am yours. This, you, all of you, is what I signed up for. So. It's fine. It really is."

He felt Sherlock's breath against his ear, then press of his lips, warm and soft against his throat.

"I think I fell in love with you the moment I saw you," Sherlock said, his voice reverent. "I _knew_ it when I realised you were the one who shot Jeff Hope."

"You've loved me for that long?"

"In a platonic, homoromantic manner. I only realised I'd very much like to fuck you while I was away."

"Yeah. Same, I think. I - I realised you were important when we ran home from Angelo's, when you fixed my leg. It was, um, when I thought you'd died that I realised I hadn't told you how much you meant to me, how much I felt for you."

"You can tell me now," murmured Sherlock.

John chuckled. "For someone who can't abide sentiment you don't mind me being soppy do you?"

He felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder. "Only if it's about me." He sighed and tightened his arms. "I love you, John." They stood there watching the moonlight dapple the water. After a while Sherlock spoke again. "I am yours too," he said. "It frightened me, how much I felt for you. When I...left, I thought perhaps it was for the best, caring so much was a liability, but I couldn't stay away, as soon as I could, I had to come back. I can't bear to be without you, John. I can't get out either."

John thought about that. Thought about the Sherlock he had known before he'd faked his death, terrified of emotion, the man he'd called a machine, and the Sherlock who'd returned, a man less afraid of his feelings, trying to embrace them, bravely risking the pain they would inevitably bring. Perhaps if he hadn't left they would never have gotten to this point.

"I love you," said John and placed his left hand over Sherlock's, lining up their ring fingers. "For the rest of our lives. You're stuck with me now, Sherlock."

Sherlock nipped his shoulder. "Good."


	30. Doing something hot

Well folks, this is it! Thank you especially to everyone who cheered me along with your comments and feedback, your reviews made this whole exercise worthwhile! xo

**Warnings for this chapter:** MORE SEX, mature content.

**Day 30: Doing something hot**

They had been at the villa for a few days now and John was comfortable enough with the privacy it afforded to stroll out nude from their bedroom and dive into their private splash pool. He swam a few laps, enjoying the morning, the temperature already rising as the sun began its course across the perfectly blue sky. He swam to the edge of the infinity pool and looked out across the perfectly blue sea. Some expensive yachts sailed by with their illustrious guests. Despite Sherlock's misgivings they still hadn't been bored, although they had ruined the knickers beyond redemption. Sherlock had been threatening to go to one of the many boutiques on the island and purchase a new pair.

He swam back to the edge and went to lie on the large sunbed in the cabana while he dried off. The sun and the light warm breeze was pleasant and he stretched his limbs, feeling younger and more at peace than he had in years.

He heard footsteps.

"Hello," he said.

"Mm," replied Sherlock running a finger lightly down John's spine to his coccyx, making him shiver.

John smiled into his arm.

The teasing finger traced along the crack of his arse and John subconsciously parted his thighs as his cock responded in a Pavlovian fashion to the intimate touch from Sherlock.

He felt Sherlock shift over him and then shivered again as the path of his finger was followed by his tongue, warm against skin still cool from the morning swim. Sherlock didn't stop at John's tailbone but continued on and John tensed as that clever tongue glided along the crease of his arse and continued to his perineum. Sherlock swiped at John's balls, pressed as they were against the cushion of the sunbed. John groaned and parted his thighs wider, which Sherlock took, quite rightly, as encouragement and traced back up to his buttocks to tease at his opening. It wasn't the first time Sherlock had explored this far but it was the first time that John decided that he wanted to try going even further.

"Go on then," he murmured.

Sherlock responded with a swirl of his tongue, parting John's buttocks with his fingers and burying his face in John's arse, that clever tongue delving and probing with skill and flexible strength. John writhed under the onslaught, his nerve endings alive with the wet, tingly, pleasant sensation as Sherlock penetrated his entrance.

"More," he gasped.

Sherlock worked his tongue against John's hole, moving in further until finally he withdrew. John heard the pop of a lid and then a single slick digit pressed at his anus. John relaxed into the touch, pushing onto Sherlock's finger, the thicker, fuller sensation sending tendrils of arousal along his spine until it was completely inside. Sherlock wriggled his finger a little and then pulled it slowly out before sliding it in again.

"Look at you," Sherlock murmured as he slid his finger in and out of John. "Being fucked by my finger, my beautiful John."

He drew his finger out and returned it with another, stretching John even further. He bit his arm as he adjusted to the increased width and then shuddered as Sherlock twisted his fingers, scissoring them and curling them slightly. John groaned as Sherlock brushed what must be his prostate and he was assailed by a sharp burst of pleasure.

"There- that-" he gasped and Sherlock found the spot again and stroked against it until John was writhing on his fingers and begging for more.

He heard the sound of a hand sliding slickly against flesh and then Sherlock's fingers were gone and solid thickness pressed at his hole. John shuddered in anticipation as Sherlock position himself between his thighs and began to press forward. John felt the tension against his inner ring of muscle, the involuntary clench and then, as the pressure continued, he felt his body give in and relax and Sherlock slid forward. He was filled, stretched, and he couldn't feel anything but the thick intrusion, opening him up and taking him. Sherlock pushed all the way home and then lay along John's back, completely sheathed inside him. Sherlock was all about him, over him and inside him, John could feel his breath against his ear, his heartbeat against his back, his pulse inside him. He understood now, why Sherlock had found it so overwhelming. He felt so exposed, so naked and open. He felt Sherlock tremble.

"John," he gasped. "You feel- I didn't _know_."

John whimpered and surrendered into Sherlock, not wanting to lose this feeling of being owned and part of him. Sherlock began to make small thrusts with his hips, small movements deep inside John, stimulating him all over, inside him, against him. John's cock rubbed against the cushion of the sun bed. He parted his thighs wider, tilting his hips up and Sherlock followed suit, increasing the strength of his thrusts, just his hips rising and falling, pumping into John as he lay pinned under Sherlock's long body.

John shook, lost in sensation, everything centered on Sherlock's length penetrating and withdrawing, over and over, working up the pleasure curling through his hips and groin, up along his spine and down through his legs until he was shaking and trembling. He lifted his arse up for more until finally Sherlock pulled back and gripped his hips and pounded into him with hard, fast strokes. The building pleasure broke and John came with a desperate cry, thrusting against the cushions, clenching around Sherlock's cock buried inside him. Sherlock stiffened against him, gasping out his name and holding on a deep thrust, and John could feel him pulse inside him as the last shudders of a bone numbing orgasm subsided.

He sagged and Sherlock collapsed on him, still inside him. They lay there for a long moment until John shifted.

"Oof, you're heavy, get off," he grunted, and Sherlock pulled out and fell to the side, snagging a quick kiss. John stretched and groaned with satisfaction. "That. Was. Fantastic."

Sherlock stretched as well then leaned over and kissed John again."You liked it?" he asked hopefully.

John grinned. "Yeah, I did."

Sherlock's lips curled into a smug smile. "I'd like to do that again, if you're amenable," he said tossed John a towel before collapsing back onto the sunbed.

"Um, yes, yes I am." John clenched his butt and winced at the protest of unfamiliar muscles as he wiped himself clean. "Might need a few days but yeah - we can."

They dozed in the shade, the sun rising, shadows shifting as the heat of the day rose.

"I thought I might go to Gustavia today," mused Sherlock. "Mycroft's friend has moored his yacht there. Apparently he has interests in money laundering. Might be fun."

John grinned. "If I can walk, I'll come with you."

Sherlock leaned over and kissed him. "I hope so," he said. "I'd be lost without my husband."

John grinned against his mouth and kissed him again.

The End.


End file.
